Then, after a stroll through the sheds where a hundred or so men were at work upon the various parts of the new battleplane destined to “strafe” the Huns, and clear the air of the Fokkers, the easy-going but intrepid airman made his way back to Pall Mall, where he ate an early dinner alone in the big upstairs dining-room at the Royal Automobile Club.
By half-past seven he had smoked the post-prandial cigarette, swallowed a tiny glass of Grand Marnier Cordon Rouge, and was strolling back along Pall Mall towards Charing Cross.
At the corner of the Haymarket he hailed a passing taxi, and drove out to Hammersmith to a small, dingy house situated in a side-turning off the busy King Street. There he dismissed the conveyance, and entered the house with a latch-key.
“Cranch!” he shouted when in the small, close-smelling hall, having closed the door behind him. “Cranch! Are you at home?”
“Hullo! Is that you, Mr. Pryor?” came a cheery answer, when from the back room on the ground-floor emerged a burly, close-shaven man in his shirt-sleeves, for it was a hot, breathless night.
“Yes. I’m quite a stranger, am I not?” laughed Pryor, following his host back into the cheaply furnished sitting-room.
“Look here, Cranch, I’m going out on a funny expedition to-night,” he said. “I want you to fit me up with the proper togs for the Walworth Road. You know the best rig-out. And I want you to come with me.”
“Certainly, Mr. Pryor,” was his host’s reply. John Cranch had done his twenty-five years in the Criminal Investigation Department at Scotland Yard as sergeant and inspector, and now amplified his pension by doing private inquiry work. He was “on the list” at the Yard, and to persons who went to the police headquarters to seek unofficial assistance his name was frequently given as a very reliable officer.
The pair sat for some time in earnest consultation, after which both ascended to a bedroom above, where, in the cupboard, hung many suits of clothes, from the rags of a tramp—with broken boots to match—to the smart evening clothes of the prosperous middle-aged roué who might be seen at supper at the Savoy, or haunting the nightclubs of London. Among them were the uniforms of a postman, a railway-porter, with caps belonging to the various companies, a fireman, a private soldier, a lieutenant, a gas-inspector, a tram-conductor, and other guises which ex-detective John Cranch had, from time to time, assumed.
Within half-an-hour the pair again descended, and entering the sitting-room they presented quite a different appearance.