'But what the hell did you want to wait till the last minute for?' Gregory snapped. 'Apart from what we went through you were darned nearly too late to get us out at all.'
'It wasn't quite as bad as that, sir. We were in our boat by half past four, lying concealed under the cliffs to the north of the bay with our night glasses out, all ready for the performance. Then their boat came down the channel and they chucked you overboard. We could have reached you within two minutes but we wanted to wait, if it were possible, until they'd gone back up the creek and couldn't spot us and guess we were on to their little game. Our scheme went like clockwork. They think you're dead and that they're safe as houses; so no alarm will have been given. You're out of it and we'll be able to pull them in just when we wish.'
Gregory nodded. 'Good staff work, I suppose, but devilish hard on the nerves, and you've made a pretty fine mess of my poor old carcase.'
'Maybe, but did you get anything? That's what I had to wake you up to know.'
'I did,' said Wells with new enthusiasm. 'I managed to spot the address on that case before they grabbed me. Mitbloom &Allison, 43, Barter Street, E. 1.'
'Good boy,' the Superintendent chuckled into his double chin. 'I'm leaving for London now and we'll take a look over the place tonight. The doctor tells me there's no damage done to either of you; although you'll be a bit sore in the ribs for the next few days. You'd both better take it easy, I'm thinking, while I get on with the job.'
Gerry Wells sat up, suppressed a groan, and said: 'Half a minute, sir. This is my pigeon. Surely you're not going to do me out of it; just because I took a chance on getting caught last night.'
'I don't want to do you out of anything if you're fit to carry on, but the doctors seem to think you ought to rest up for a day or two, at least.'
'I'll be all right, sir. I've no bones broken. It's only a bit painful where the ropes cut into the skin on my chest and back when you pulled me out. What time d'you mean to raid Mitbloom & Allison?'
'I shan't raid it. That would give the game away. I shall have a search warrant made out, and pray to God I won't be called on to show it, then pay the place an unofficial visit sometime in the early hours tomorrow morning. I'll find out in the meantime if they keep a night watchman. If they do I'll think up some scheme to get him out of the way for a bit. Then we can go in and have a snoop round without anyone being any the wiser.'
'If I caught the last train up then I could be in on it couldn't I, sir?' Gerry Wells pleaded.
The Superintendent nodded. 'Certainly if you're fit. Best stay here for a bit though and see how you feel this evening.'
Gregory eased himself over on to his tummy. 'We'll be with you. Old soldiers never die. Just order some dinner for us and a car to take us to the station; both items on Sir Pellinore's account. He owes us that for his day at the seaside.'
The doctor, who had been warned to attend again when the patients were woken, was summoned. He said that there was no danger in their getting up and only advised against it owing to the pain which must result from their bruised muscles. Where the ropes had cut into them he dressed the broken skin with soothing ointment and fresh bandages. When he had finished Superintendent Marrowfat and Sir Pellinore left them, to return to London, while the two patients turned over to doze and rest.
At eight o'clock the manager of the hotel called them in person, inquired most kindly after their health, and superintended the preparations for an excellent meal ordered by Sir Pellinore, to be served in their room.
They both felt terribly stiff, but apart from that, and the soreness under their arms, perfectly fit and well again after their thirteen hours in bed. Dressing proved a painful operation, but once it was accomplished and they had been heartened by a good dinner, washed down with a fine bottle of Burgundy, they felt as keen as ever. A car was waiting for them when they came downstairs and they caught the 9.8 to London; arriving at Charing Cross two minutes before midnight.
At the Yard all preparations for the secret raid had been completed. Mitbloom & Allison proved to be a firm of wholesale tobacco merchants. Their warehouse, so the Superintendent had ascertained, was fitted with electric burglar alarms but they did not employ a night watchman. Arrangements had been made for the electric current to be cut off at the main between the hours of one and three so that the police would be able to make an entry without the alarm going off and, unless they were very unfortunate, no one would suspect on the following day that the place had been searched in the early hours of the morning.
The Superintendent, Gregory, Gerry Wells, a lock expert from the special department, and another detective, squeezed themselves in one of the bigger Flying Squad cars at a quarter to one, and the driver turned its nose eastward.
They ran down the Strand which was still fairly busy with traffic passing to and from the great restaurants; Fleet Street, now given over to swift moving newspaper vans lining up to collect and distribute the early copies of the great national dailies; then up Ludgate Hill and through Queen Victoria Street, strangely silent and deserted compared with the swarming thousands who throng those great business areas in the day time. Passing the Bank of England, they sped on to Liverpool Street, then turned right, into that maze of thoroughfares into which the wealthier population of London and the suburbs so rarely penetrate.
Barter Street proved to be a dark canyon between high brick buildings. It contained no residential houses and was given over entirely to tall warehouses; some of which had dusty looking old-fashioned offices on the ground floor. Dustbins lined the pavements; a solitary cat minced its way forward in leisurely manner across the street upon its nightly prowl.
They parked the car at the end of the street leaving the driver with it. A city policeman touched his helmet to the Superintendent, having been warned of their visit, and remained on the corner to keep watch while the others made their way along the narrow pavement to number forty-three.
Grimy window panes stared at them blankly from the street level; above, the big hook and ball of a crane for hauling merchandise to the upper floors dangled over their heads. The Superintendent looked at his watch.
'Five past one. Go ahead, Jim,' he said.
The lock expert produced a bag of tools and, selecting one, started work on the door. 'Lock's easy enough,' he murmured. 'Old-fashioned piece.' With a twist of his wrist it clicked back into its socket.
Pushing the door open the five men entered the building. The Superintendent switched on his torch. It showed a dusty hallway with a flight of stone steps leading to the upper floors and, on their left, two glass panelled swing doors giving on to the offices. Thrusting them wide the fat Superintendent led the way in.
The beam of his torch, as he flashed it round, showed shelves with rows of faded letter files upon them; an old-fashioned clerk's desk, with high stools in front of it, and a rusty brass rail which carried a number of leather-bound ledgers. The place had the odour of dreary old-fashioned commercialism where men toiled half their lives in a perpetual twilight for a pittance. Another door with a frosted glass panel, upon which was painted 'Private' in black letters, showed to the right. The Superintendent walked over and tried its handle. The lock expert set to work again and soon had it open.
The inner office was little better than the one they had just glanced over. It gave on to a deep well, and was lit in the day time only by glass reflectors swung on chains at an angle to the windows. A few faded photographs of elderly side whiskered gentlemen, probably long dead directors of the firm, were hung upon the whitewashed walls above a skirting of pitch pine. A roll top desk occupied a corner near the window; a meagre square of turkey carpet failed to conceal all but a small portion of the worn oilcloth with which the floor was covered. An open bookcase contained piles of old trade journals, samples, and miscellaneous paraphernalia.