He stood in thought. Had something occurred to startle Mr. Felix when writing his note, so that in his agitation he omitted to enclose it? Or had he simply made a mistake? Or was there some deep-laid plot? Well, he would see what Scotland Yard thought.
He put the envelope away in his pocket-book and, going down to the street, joined Broughton in the taxi. They rattled along the crowded thoroughfares while Mr. Avery told the clerk about the envelope.
‘I say, sir,’ said the latter, ‘but that’s a strange business. When I saw him, Mr. Felix was not at all agitated. He seemed to me a very cool, clear-headed man.’
It happened that about a year previously the shipping company had been the victim of a series of cleverly planned robberies, and, in following up the matter, Mr. Avery had become rather well acquainted with two or three of the Yard Inspectors. One of these in particular he had found a shrewd and capable officer, as well as a kindly and pleasant man to work with. On arrival at the Yard he therefore asked for this man, and was pleased to find he was not engaged.
‘Good morning, Mr. Avery,’ said the Inspector, as they entered his office, ‘what good wind blows you our way to-day?’
‘Good morning, Inspector. This is Mr. Broughton, one of my clerks, and he has got a rather singular story that I think will interest you to hear.’
Inspector Burnley shook hands, closed the door, and drew up a couple of chairs.
‘Sit down, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘I am always interested in a good story.’
‘Now, Broughton, repeat your adventures over again to Inspector Burnley.’
Broughton started off and, for the second time, told of his visit to the docks, the damage to the heavily built cask, the finding of the sovereigns and the woman’s hand, and the interview with Mr. Felix. The Inspector listened gravely and took a note or two, but did not speak till the clerk had finished, when he said:—
‘Let me congratulate you, Mr. Broughton, on your very clear statement.’
‘To which I might add a word,’ said Mr. Avery, and he told of the visit of Mr. Felix to the office and handed over the envelope he had left.
‘That envelope was written at 11.30,’ said the Inspector, ‘and it is now nearly 12.30. I am afraid this is a serious matter, Mr. Avery. Can you come to the docks at once?’
‘Certainly.’
‘Well, don’t let us lose any time.’ He threw a London directory down before Broughton. ‘Just look up this Felix, will you, while I make some arrangements.’
Broughton looked for West Jubb Street, but there was no such near Tottenham Court Road.
‘I thought as much,’ said Inspector Burnley, who had been telephoning. ‘Let us proceed.’
As they reached the courtyard a taxi drew up, containing two plain clothes men as well as the driver. Burnley threw open the door, they all got in, and the vehicle slid quickly out into the street.
Burnley turned to Broughton. ‘Describe the man Felix as minutely as you can.’
‘He was a man of about middle height, rather slightly and elegantly built. He was foreign-looking, French, I should say, or even Spanish, with dark eyes and complexion, and black hair. He wore a short, pointed beard. He was dressed in blue clothes of good quality, with a dark-green or brown Homburg hat, and black shoes with light spats. I did not observe his collar and tie specially, but he gave me the impression of being well-dressed in such matters of detail. He wore a ring with some kind of stone on the little finger of his left hand.’
The two plain clothes men had listened attentively to the description, and they and the Inspector conversed in low tones for a few moments, when silence fell on the party.
They stopped opposite the Bullfinch’s berth and Broughton led the way down.
‘There she is,’ he pointed, ‘if we go to that gangway we can get down direct to the forehold.’
The two plain-clothes men had also alighted and the five walked in the direction indicated. They crossed the gangway and, approaching the hatchway, looked down into the hold.
‘There’s where it is,’ began Broughton, pointing down, and then suddenly stopped.
The others stepped forward and looked down. The hold was empty. Harkness and the cask were gone!
CHAPTER II
INSPECTOR BURNLEY ON THE TRACK
The immediate suggestion was, of course, that Harkness had had the cask moved to some other place for safety, and this they set themselves to find out.
‘Get hold of the gang that were unloading this hold,’ said the Inspector.
Broughton darted off and brought up a stevedore’s foreman, from whom they learned that the forehold had been emptied some ten minutes earlier, the men having waited to complete it and then gone for dinner.
‘Where do they get their dinner? Can we get hold of them now?’ asked Mr. Avery.
‘Some of them, sir, I think. Most of them go out into the city, but some use the night watchman’s room where there is a fire.’
‘Let’s go and see,’ said the Inspector, and headed by the foreman they walked some hundred yards along the quay to a small brick building set apart from the warehouses, inside and in front of which sat a number of men, some eating from steaming cans, others smoking short pipes.
‘Any o’ you boys on the Bullfinch’s lower forehold?’ asked the foreman, ‘if so, boss wants you ’alf a sec.’
Three of the men got up slowly and came forward.
‘We want to know, men,’ said the managing director, ‘if you can tell us anything about Harkness and a damaged cask. He was to wait with it till we got down.’
‘Well, he’s gone with it,’ said one of the men, ‘lessn’ ’alf an hour ago.’
‘Gone with it?’
‘Yes. Some toff in blue clothes an’ a black beard came up an’ give ’im a paper, an’ when ’e’d read it ’e calls out an’ sez, sez ’e, ‘’Elp me swing out this ’ere cask,’ ’e says. We ’elps ’im, an’ ’e puts it on a ’orse dray—a four-wheeler. An’ then they all goes off, ’im an’ the cove in the blue togs walkin’ together after the dray.’
‘Any name on the dray?’ asked Mr. Avery.
‘There was,’ replied the spokesman, ‘but I’m blessed if I knows what it was. ’Ere Bill, you was talking about that there name. Where was it?’
Another man spoke.
‘It was Tottenham Court Road, it was. But I didn’t know the street, and I thought that a strange thing, for I’ve lived off the Tottenham Court Road all my life.’
‘Was it East John Street?’ asked Inspector Burnley.
‘Ay, it was something like that. East or West. West, I think. An’ it was something like John. Not John, but something like it.’
‘What colour was the dray?’
‘Blue, very fresh and clean.’
‘Any one notice the colour of the horse?’
But this was beyond them. The horse was out of their line. Its colour had