The Sins of Severac Bablon Part 57

"That one--yes!"

"That's the one I mean, sir--Buckingham Palace!"

Sheffield continued to stare.

"Where did you actually drop him?"

"At the gate."

"Well? Where did he go?"

"He went in, sir!"

"Went in! He was admitted?"

"Yes, sir; I saw him pa.s.s the sentry!"

Chief Inspector Sheffield leapt into the cab with a face grimly set.

"Buckingham Palace!" he snapped.

Meanwhile, Detective-Sergeant Harborne, following back the clue of the yellow cigarettes, in accordance with the instructions of his superior, who had elected to follow it forward, made his way to a cab-rank at the end of Finchley Road.

To a cab-minder he showed a photograph. It was from that unique negative which the Home Secretary had shown to the pseudo-Inspector Sheffield at Womsley Old Place; moreover, it was the only copy which the right honourable gentleman had authorised to be printed.

"Does this person often take cabs from this rank, my lad?"

The man surveyed it with beer-weakened eyes.

"Mr. Sanrack it is, guv'nor! Yes, he's often here!"

Harborne, who was a believer in the straightforward British methods, and who scorned alike the unnecessary subtlety of the French school, as represented by Lemage or Duquesne, and the Fenimore-Cooper-like tactics dear to the men of the American agencies, showed his card.

"What's his address?" he snapped.

"It's farther down on this side; I can't think of the number, sir,"

replied the other shakily. (The proximity of a police officer always injuriously affected his heart.) "But I can show you the 'ouse."

"Come on!" ordered Harborne. "Walk behind me; and when I pa.s.s it, whistle."

Off went the detective without delay, and walked briskly along the Finchley Road. He had proceeded more than half-way, when, as he came abreast of a gate set in a high wall, from his rear quavered a moist whistle.

"70A," he muttered. "Right-oh!"

He thrilled with the joy of the chase, antic.i.p.ating the triumph that awaited him. Inspector Sheffield's pursuit was more than likely to prove futile, but Severac Bablon, he argued, was practically certain to return to his head-quarters sooner or later.

He thought of the weeks and months during which they had sought for this very house in vain; of the useless tracking of divers persons known to be acquainted with the man of mystery; of the simple means--the yellow cigarettes--by which, at last, they had come to it.

Mr. Aloys. X Alden had been very reticent of late--and Mr. Oppner knew of the cigarette clue. At that reflection the roseate horizon grew darkened by the figure of a triumphant American holding up Severac Bablon with a neat silver-plated model by Smith and Wesson. If Alden should forestall him!

Harborne, who had been pursuing these reflections whilst, within sight of No. 70A, he stood slowly loading his pipe, paused, pouch in hand. On one memorable occasion, the super-subtlety of Sheffield (who was tainted with French heresies) had led to a fiasco which had made them the laughing-stock of Scotland Yard. Harborne felt in his breast pocket, where there reposed a copy of the warrant for the arrest of Severac Bablon. And before he withdrew his hand his mind was made up. He was a man of indomitable pluck.

Walking briskly to the gate in the high wall, he opened it, pa.s.sed around a very neat little lawn, and stood in the porch of 70A. As he glanced about for bell or knocker, and failed to find either, the door was opened quietly by a tall man in black--an Arab.

"I have important business with Mr. Sanrack," said Harborne quietly, and handed the Arab a card which simply bore the name: "Mr. Goodson."

"He is not at home, but expected," replied the man, in guttural English.

"Will Mr. Goodson await?"

"Yes," said Harborne, "if Mr. Sanrack won't be long."

The Arab bowed, and conducted him to a small but cosy room, furnished simply but with great good taste--and withdrew. Harborne congratulated himself. The simple and direct, if old-fashioned, methods were, after all, the best.

It was a very silent house. That fact struck him at once. Listen intently as he would, no sound from within could he detect. What should be his next move?

He stepped to the door and looked out into the hall. This was rather narrow, and, owing to the presence of heavy Oriental drapings, very dark. It would suit his purpose admirably. Directly "Mr. Sanrack" came in he would spring upon him and get the handcuffs fast, then he could throw open the front door, if there had been time for anyone to reclose it, and summon a.s.sistance with his whistle.

He himself must effect the actual arrest--single-handed. He cared nothing who came upon the scene after that. He placed the handcuffs in a more convenient pocket, and b.u.t.toned up his double-breasted blue serge coat.

Sheffield was certain to be Superintendent before long; and it only required one other big case, such as this, to insure Harborne's succession to an Inspectorship. From thence to the office vacated by Sheffield was an easy step for a competent and ambitious man.

How silent the house was!

Harborne glanced at his watch. He had been waiting nearly five minutes.

Scarce another two had elapsed--when a brisk step sounded on the gravel.

The detective braced himself for a spring. Would he have the Arab to contend with too?

No. A key was slipped into the well-oiled lock. The door opened.

With something of the irresistible force of a charging bull, Detective-Sergeant Harborne hurled himself upon his man.

Human strength had been useless to oppose that attack; but by subtlety it was frustrated. The man stepped agilely aside--and Harborne reclosed the door with his head! That his skull withstood that crashing blow was miraculous; but he was of tough stock. Perhaps the ruling pa.s.sion helped him, for dazed and dizzy as he was, he did the right thing when his cunning opponent leapt upon him from behind.

He threw his hands above his shoulders and grasped the man round the neck--then--slowly--shakily--his head swimming and the world a huge teetotum--he rose upon his knees. Bent well forward, he rose to his feet. The other choked, swore, struck useless blows, but hung limply, helpless, in that bear-like, awful grip.

At the exact moment--no second too soon, no second too late--down went Harborne's right hand to the wriggling, kicking, right foot of the man upon whom he had secured that dreadful hold. A bend forward--a turn of the hip--and his man fell crashing to the floor.

"That's called the Cornish grip!" panted the detective, dropping all his heaviness upon the rec.u.mbent form.

_Click! Click!_

The handcuffed man wriggled into a sitting posture.

"You G.o.ddarned son of a skunk!" he gurgled--and stopped short--sat, white-faced, manacled, looking up at his captor.

"Jumpin' Jenkins!" he whispered--"it's that plug-headed guy, Harborne!"