“I should perhaps report this discovery to the authorities, but I have thought it best to consult you upon the matter before doing so. This letter should reach you by the first post to-morrow (Saturday) morning. I should be glad if you could make it convenient to meet me on the premises at 2 p.m. that day, when the workmen who are at present employed there will have gone. I can then show you my discovery, and we can consult upon the most suitable steps to be taken in the matter. Should you not find this convenient, I shall assume that the subject does not interest you, and shall report the matter forthwith to the police. Yours faithfully, John Lacey.”
A blackmailing letter, without a doubt, Mr. Martin could see at a glance. But what on earth could the fellow have discovered? Fifteen years ago, when Mr. Martin moved from Praed Street to the Barbican, he had taken the utmost care to destroy every trace of the purpose to which that little cellar had been put. He racked his brains to try and think of anything that could possibly have been overlooked, but without success. Even those ingeniously contrived recesses in the walls had been torn out, leaving nothing but the bare brick. Mr. Martin had done the work with his own hands, not caring to trust anyone else with so delicate a matter. Yet, after all, in spite of all his care, he must have left some clue, which this infernal fellow Lacey had somehow blundered upon.
He brushed aside as absurd the suggestion that “Lacey” could conceal the identity of one of those with whom he had done business, who knew the secret of the cellar and had adopted this clumsy plan to blackmail him. The circle of his secret clients was a very narrow one; he knew them all and was well aware that blackmail was neither in their line nor in their interest. The expert in acquiring jewellery concentrated upon his particular art; he did not descend to blackmail, especially of the one man through whose agency he was able to dispose of his spoil. No, there was no doubt about it, a slip had been made, a slip which had lain undiscovered all these years, through the circumstance that his successor, the clothier, had found no use for the cellars and had boarded up the entrance to them.
There was nothing for it but to carry out the suggestion contained in the letter, and meet the man in Praed Street at two o’clock. He must find out the nature of this mysterious discovery, and take steps to ensure that all evidence of it be securely destroyed. Lacey, of course, would demand some compensation for holding his tongue. The sum he demanded would depend upon the importance of what he had found. Well, they would discuss terms, alone in that empty house, in the very cellar which Mr. Martin remembered so well.
Mr. Martin stroked his chin reflectively. What sort of fellow was this Lacey, he wondered? He himself was a powerful man, proud of his own powers of intimidation. It ought to be simple enough for him to destroy the evidence first then to tell Lacey to go to the devil and do his worst. He unlocked a drawer of his desk and drew from it a small automatic pistol, which he slipped into his pocket. It was with a smile that he remembered that Praed Street had recently acquired a sinister reputation. Well, if any accident should happen——
Mr. Martin’s office closed at one o’clock on Saturdays. He left a few minutes before that hour, having put John Lacey’s letter in his pocket and examined the mechanism of his automatic. Then he consumed a hasty lunch at a chop-house near-by, and walked down the street to Aldersgate Metropolitan station, where he took a ticket to Paddington. He emerged into Praed Street at about five minutes to two, and began to walk along that thoroughfare in the direction of Number 407.
Praed Street, at this time on a fine afternoon, wore its usual air of busy activity. The exodus from central London was still at its height, the crowds still passed along in bus or taxi towards the portals of Paddington station. On the other hand, the inhabitants of the neighbourhood, released from work, were beginning their week-end shopping. The pavement was crowded, and Mr. Martin, who had some distance to walk to his destination, looked about him curiously. Since he had put up his shutters for the last time, fifteen years ago, he had rarely revisited Praed Street, and even then he had only traversed it in a taxi, going to or from Paddington. The street had changed a little since he had been an inhabitant of it. Certainly there were fresh names over many of the shops, and, here and there, there had been alterations to the buildings he remembered. He glanced at a board on the opposite side of the street. Elmer Ludgrove. That was new since his day. The rather musty-looking shop was conspicuous among its neighbours by being closed. Praed Street, as a rule, does most of its business on Saturday afternoon.
Mr. Martin walked on a step or two, then hesitated for an instant. So Sam Copperdock, from whom he bought his cigarettes in those early days, was still here. Mr. Martin had long ago abandoned cigarettes for cigars, but he felt a momentary impulse to go in and renew the old acquaintance. Sam Copperdock had been a good customer of his, he remembered. Many a bottle of whiskey had he sold him. But on second thoughts he refrained. Perhaps it would be just as well, in the light of what might happen during the next half hour or so, that his visit to Praed Street remained unsuspected.
Mr. Martin walked on, and in a few minutes found himself outside Number 407. It was much as he remembered it, but that it was lying empty, and showed signs of being refitted for a new tenant. The windows were almost obscured with patches of white-wash, but peering through them he could see trestles, timber, shavings, all the litter which betrays the presence of the carpenter. So far, then, the letter was correct. Mr. Martin, after a furtive glance round about him, walked up to the door and tried it. It was locked.
He drew out his watch and consulted it. It was nearly five minutes past two, but he remembered that he had noticed that morning that it was a trifle fast. Lacey, whoever he was, would doubtless be along in a moment. Mr. Martin hoped he would be quick; he had no wish to be recognized outside the premises by any of his old acquaintances. A sudden thought struck him. Perhaps Lacey was already inside, waiting for him. There was an electric bellpush by the side of the door. Mr. Martin pressed it firmly, but could hear no answering ring above the roar of the traffic. Then all at once he became aware that a small girl was standing by his side, looking up at him with an appraising expression.