“Where does he live, and what’s his name?”
“He lives in the Boundary Road, St. John’s Wood, and his name is Bolinski; a Russian, I suppose. All their names seem to end in ‘ski’ or ‘off.’”
So his name was Bolinski, and he lived in Boundary Road, St. John’s Wood. Here was valuable information for Smeaton. Wingate chatted a little longer with Bayfield, and then went for a walk along the front, returning in time to receive the detective’s message ’phoned to the hotel.
At this juncture he thought it was wise policy to take both the manager and Bayfield into his confidence. He showed them Smeaton’s card, and explained that for reasons he was not at liberty to disclose, he wanted to identify Bolinski. A man was coming down for that purpose by an early train to-morrow morning, and he wanted to smuggle him into the hotel as early as possible.
The manager smiled. “That’s all right, Mr Wingate. Inspector Smeaton is an old friend of mine, and I have helped him a bit here, and more in London. Our friend breakfasts on the stroke of half-past nine. Get your man in here a little before nine, and Bayfield will take him in charge, and give him a glimpse of the distinguished foreigner.”
Next morning the taxi-driver Davies arrived, attired in a brand new suit, and looking eminently respectable in mufti.
Wingate met him at the station, piloted him to “The Old Ship,” and handed him over to the careful guardianship of the astute Bayfield.
At nine-thirty, Bolinski, fresh and smart, came down to his breakfast, seating himself at his usual table. Davies crept in, and took a good look at him, unobserved by the object of his scrutiny.
Wingate was waiting in the hall, with the manager. The face of Davies was purple with emotion and the pleasurable anticipation of further and substantial reward.
“That’s the man, right enough, sir!” he said in an excited whisper. “I’d swear to him out of a thousand if they was all standin’ before me.”