He strolled north and east through familiar lanes. He stopped now and then, and glanced at the windows. His actions, though natural, had one purpose. The Yard had let him go free. And yet, he knew, there were serious-faced young men about who were waiting for him. It was not in the cards that Sir Richard and MacKeenon would remain passive. Every inspector from that dingy house near the Embankment had received orders to watch out for any overt act on the part of Chester Fay, just out and dangerous.
The many faces of the crowd flowed before him like a stream. He registered each one, but found none upon which he could fasten his suspicion. The Yard and Sir Richard would be more than keen to know how the great safe in Hatton Gardens had been opened. They had declared at the time that it was by far the best piece of cracksman’s work ever done in the city.
Fay had the pride of his profession. Secrecy was the one thing which had been ground into him. He moved off from the windows and plunged into the throng of drab clerks and shoppers. He twisted and turned and retraced his steps. He dropped into the Tube and came out again. Satisfied, then, that there was no shadow behind him, he turned into Ludgate Street and sought for the shop.
It had been over five years since his last visit. The sales people surely had forgotten him. He glanced up at the familiar sign and entered. He made his way along aisles of polished cases and came to a protection ledge behind which was an array of medical instruments laid out for inspection.
The salesman who stepped out of the gloom with an encouraging smile was the same who had been there five years and more before. Fay realized this fact with quick intuition. He watched the man’s face for some sign of recognition. There was none.
“My eldest brother,� he said with a winning smile, “has sent me to you. He’s stationed in Mesopotamia. Rather far from here! He cawn’t come himself, y’know. I’m a bit doubtful if you remember the Sir Roderick Findlayson who went with the expedition. He practiced up St. John’s Woods way.�
The salesman rested the tips of his fingers on the polished case and puzzled his memory.
“Awkward of me, but I just can’t now. Is there anything I can do to help you out?� he asked.
Fay was on rather thin ice, and he knew it. The instruments he wished had queer names among the medical profession. It was possible the salesman was not a surgeon.
“Yes!â€� he blurted. “You can help me out. My brother—Sir Roderick Findlayson—wrote for me to send him certain things. Unfortunately I lost the letter. But I remember about what he wanted.â€�