The Cheyne mystery

by Freeman Wills Crofts

They hurried back to the cars and were soon running—somewhat over the legal speed—back to town. French, though he had shown energy enough at Earlswood, was willing to chat now in a pleasant, leisurely way, though he continued to interlard his remarks with questions on the details of Cheyne’s story. Then he took over the tracing, and examined it curiously. “I’ll have a go at this later,” he said, as he put it in his pocket, “but I can scarcely believe they would have given you the genuine article.”

Cheyne would have questioned this opinion, reminding his companion he had seen the tracing pinned up to be photographed in the house in Hopefield Avenue, but just then they swung into Colton Street, and the time for conversation had passed. Contrary to his expectation they ran past No. 12 without slackening, turned down the first side street beyond it, and there came to a stand.

“There’s the end of the passage behind the house,” French pointed when his men had dismounted. “Carter and Jones and Marshall go down there and watch the back. No doubt you counted and know it’s the eighth house. You other two men and you, Mr. Cheyne, come with me.”

He turned back into Colton Street and with his three followers strode rapidly up to No. 12. It was like its neighbors, a small two-storied single terrace house of old-fashioned design. Indeed the narrow road, with its two grimy rows of almost working-class dwellings, seemed more like one of those terrible streets built in the last century in the slum districts of provincial towns, than a bit of mid-London.

A peremptory knock from French producing no result, he had once more recourse to his skeleton keys. This door was easier to negotiate than the last, and in less than a minute it swung open and the four men entered the house.

On the right of the hall was a tiny sitting room, and there they found the remains of what appeared to have been a hastily prepared meal. Four chairs were drawn up to the small central table, on which were part of a loaf, butter, an empty sardine tin, egg shells, two cups containing tea leaves and two glasses smelling of whisky. French put his hand on the teapot. “Feel that, Mr. Cheyne,” he exclaimed. “They can’t be far away.”

The teapot was warm, and when Cheyne looked into the kitchen adjoining, he found that the kettle on the gas ring was also warm, though the ring itself had grown cold. If the four lunchers were Blessington and Co., as seemed indubitable, they must indeed be close by, and Cheyne grew hot with eager excitement as he thought that French and he might be within reasonable sight of their goal.

Meanwhile French and his men had carried out a rapid search of the house, without result except to prove that once more the birds had flown. But as to the direction which their flight had taken there was no clue.

“I don’t expect we’ll see them back,” French said to Cheyne, “but we must take no chances.” He turned to his men. “Jones and Marshall, stay here in the house and arrest any one who enters. You, Carter, make inquiries in these houses to the right, and you, Hobbs, do the same to the left. Come, Mr. Cheyne, you and I will try the other side of the street.”

They crossed to the house opposite, and French knocked. The door was opened by a young woman who seemed thrilled by French’s statement that he was a police officer making inquiries about the occupiers of No. 12, but who was unable to give him any useful information about them. A man lived there—she believed his name was Sime—but she did not know either himself or anything about him. No, she hadn’t seen any recent arrivals or departures. She had been engaged at the back of the house during the whole morning and had not looked out across the street. Yes, she believed Sime lived alone except for an elderly housekeeper. As far as she knew he was quite respectable, at least she had never heard anything against him.