down his flag. The drive was uneventful. Tommy’s taxi came to rest at the
departure platform just after Whittington’s. Tommy was behind him at the
booking-office. He took a first-class single ticket to Bournemouth, Tommy did
the same. As he emerged, Boris remarked, glancing up at the clock: “You are
early. You have nearly half an hour.”
Boris’s words had aroused a new train of thought in Tommy’s mind. Clearly
Whittington was making the journey alone, while the other remained in London.
Therefore he was left with a choice as to which he would follow. Obviously, he
could not follow both of them unless—-Like Boris, he glanced up at the clock,
and then to the announcement board of the trains. The Bournemouth train left at
3.30. It was now ten past. Whittington and Boris were walking up and down by the
bookstall. He gave one doubtful look at them, then hurried into an adjacent
telephone box. He dared not waste time in trying to get hold of Tuppence. In
all probability she was still in the neighbourhood of South Audley Mansions.
But there remained another ally. He rang up the Ritz and asked for Julius
Hersheimmer. There was a click and a buzz. Oh, if only the young American was
in his room! There was another click, and then “Hello” in unmistakable accents
came over the wire.
“That you, Hersheimmer? Beresford speaking. I’m at Waterloo. I’ve
followed Whittington and another man here. No time to explain. Whittington’s
off to Bournemouth by the 3.30. Can you get there by then?”
The reply was reassuring.
“Sure. I’ll hustle.”
The telephone rang off. Tommy put back the receiver with a sigh of relief.
His opinion of Julius’s power of hustling was high. He felt instinctively that
the American would arrive in time.
Whittington and Boris were still where he had left them. If Boris remained
to see his friend off, all was well. Then Tommy fingered his pocket
thoughtfully. In spite of the carte blanche assured to him, he had not yet
acquired the habit of going about with any considerable sum of money on him. The
taking of the first-class ticket to Bournemouth had left him with only a few
shillings in his pocket. It was to be hoped that Julius would arrive better
provided.
In the meantime, the minutes were creeping by: 3.15, 3.20, 3.25, 3.27.
Supposing Julius did not get there in time. 3.29…. Doors were banging. Tommy
felt cold waves of despair pass over him. Then a hand fell on his shoulder.
“Here I am, son. Your British traffic beats description! Put me wise to
the crooks right away.”
“That’s Whittington–there, getting in now, that big dark man. The other is
the foreign chap he’s talking to.”
“I’m on to them. Which of the two is my bird?”
Tommy had thought out this question.
“Got any money with you?”
Julius shook his head, and Tommy’s face fell.
“I guess I haven’t more than three or four hundred dollars with me at the
moment,” explained the American.
Tommy gave a faint whoop of relief.
“Oh, Lord, you millionaires! You don’t talk the same language! Climb
aboard the lugger. Here’s your ticket. Whittington’s your man.”
“Me for Whittington!” said Julius darkly. The train was just starting as
he swung himself aboard. “So long, Tommy.” The train slid out of the station.
Tommy drew a deep breath. The man Boris was coming along the platform
towards him. Tommy allowed him to pass and then took up the chase once more.
From Waterloo Boris took the tube as far as Piccadilly Circus. Then he
walked up Shaftesbury Avenue, finally turning off into the maze of mean streets
round Soho. Tommy followed him at a judicious distance.
They reached at length a small dilapidated square. The houses there had a
sinister air in the midst of their dirt and decay. Boris looked round, and Tommy
drew back into the shelter of a friendly porch. The place was almost deserted.
It was a cul-de-sac, and consequently no traffic passed that way. The stealthy
way the other had looked round stimulated Tommy’s imagination. From the shelter
of the doorway he watched him go up the steps of a particularly evil-looking