Chapter VIII: A Delicate Errand

At eight o’clock on a Sunday morning there is hardly a dog astir in Prince’s Street, Edinburgh, that wonderful thoroughfare of splendid shops on the one side and the valley gardens on the other, often declared by travelers to be one of the most picturesque streets in all the world.

As Paton and Darville ate their breakfast in the big dining-room of the North British Hotel, above the Waverley Station, they looked out across the valley to the gray old castle, perched on its cliff, to the left, and the handsome Scott Memorial, a prominent figure in the hazy landscape.

They were there upon a very delicate errand. During the night, as Darville tossed restlessly in his sleeping-berth, he evolved a plan. He knew that a Sunday was the worst day on which to attempt to keep observation upon any house. Therefore, he decided to try another ruse. After breakfast they obtained from the hotel-porter a guide to Edinburgh which contained a map, and together pored over it. They found that Strathnairn Road was, apparently, in one of the most select and respectable districts on the outskirts of Edinburgh, in the direction of the great Forth Bridge. It lay about a mile out on the highroad from Edinburgh towards South Queensferry, and was, it appeared, a somewhat new district.

So early was it that there was no immediate hurry, hence the two men from London took a stroll along Prince’s Street to the Caledonian Station and back again. In their whole walk they did not pass more than twenty people, for the ancient Scottish capital lies dormant each Sunday morning, when no trains move out of the stations, and the only signs of life are milkmen and vendors of the Sunday newspapers.

Back again at the North British Hotel, that handsome building dominating the end of Prince’s Street, Seton Darville halted near a taxi-stand, where four taxis stood waiting to be hired. He surveyed the drivers critically. They were all elderly save one--a dark-haired, cheery young fellow, who wore his peaked cap at an angle, and who was joking with a gray-bearded man whose cab was in front of him.

Darville regarded him for a few moments, and quickly decided that he was the man of whom he was in search. He went up to him, and said:

“I want to speak to you for a moment. Come over here.”

The young fellow, somewhat surprised, crossed to the steps of the hotel.

“Look here, are you open to a bit of an adventure this morning?” asked Darville, with a good-humored smile upon his broad, clean-shaven face.

“What sort of adventure, sir?” asked the cautious Scot.

“Well, only just a bit of fun--in order to watch somebody. That’s all.”

“I can watch anybody,” was the young fellow’s response, eager to earn something, for Sunday is always a thin day with taxi-drivers in Edinburgh. And he glanced inquiringly at Paton, who was standing at Darville’s side.

“Well, do you think you’ve got an overall to fit me?” asked Darville, laughing.

“I don’t know, sir,” he said surveying his burly, thickset figure. “We might have one round at the garage. You’re a bit of an out-size, you know.”

“Very well. We’ll wait an hour. Then you’ll take us both round to your garage and see if you can fit me up. I’ll engage you from now, so start up your ticker. We’ll go for another walk, and be back here at ten o’clock.”

“Right, sir,” answered the taxi-man, quite ripe for any adventure. He had eyed the two strangers suspiciously at first, but Darville’s _bonhomie_ had impressed him, and he now saw that some humor was intended.

The pair walked back through the deserted gardens as they chatted. Though questioned by Paton, Darville told him nothing of what he knew concerning the projected activity of the Caborns. Seton Darville was ever secretive. He never allowed others to know of his intentions, or suspect his devilish ingenuity before he had carried his clever, almost uncanny, maneuvers into practice. To his friends he was always most loyal, honorable, and sympathetic. His age passed unnoticed because of his never-failing buoyancy of youthful spirits. Every woman, young or old, pretty or ugly, he treated as a little child, forgiving every feminine whim and foible; to men he was the very soul of honor, even against his own interests. But to his enemies--and especially the enemies of Great Britain--he was harsh, unrelenting, terribly vindictive and cruel. He carried out his frightful vindictiveness by those irresistible means that were in secret at his disposal, for his hidden hand was indeed one of the most powerful ones in the British Empire.

When again the adventurous pair met the jaunty chauffeur outside the great façade of the hotel, Darville asked:

“Do you happen to know the Strathnairn Road?”

“Yes, sir. It’s out towards South Queensferry as you go forth to the Forth Bridge.”

“Well, we’ll be going there this morning,” remarked Paton, speaking for the first time in his broad Scotch. The taxi-driver, who had given his name as McLay, instantly realized the presence of a fellow-countryman.

“I’ll take ye there all right, sir. And I’ll do whatever ye want,” he assured them.

“Well, now take us to your garage,” said Darville, and they both entered the taxi, which started out along the Portobello Road. Their destination proved to be about a mile out of the city, and there certain matters of payment were at once arranged. A greasy blue suit of overalls was provided, and Darville fitted them on, but they were hopelessly too small. Several other suits belonging to the other chauffeurs were tried, but none were sufficiently broad in the chest, until at last a suit owned by a driver whom McLay referred to as “Fatty” Duncan was produced, and proved fairly satisfactory.

“Now, you two go along to the corner of Strathnairn Road,” said Darville. “Before you get there Mr. Paton will get out. At the corner you’ll break down the taxi, and then ’phone to me to come along and mend it. Give me a bag of tools.”

“All right, sir. I’ll ’phone in about half an hour, and you can take a taxi out to me. That’s all right! I’ll play the game. Rely on me. I can see a bit of fun in this.”

“And I’ll make it fully worth your while,” declared Darville, laughing. “Yes, you’re right! We shall have a bit of fun. I want to watch for somebody.”

“Who?”

Darville hesitated.

“Well, to tell you a great secret, we’re looking for a runaway couple. But, of course, don’t you mention it to a soul.”

“H’m! You’re divorce detectives, eh?” remarked the cautious Scot, laughing.

Darville smiled, in order to give color to the suggestion.

“I wish I could tell you all about it,” he said, “but you’ll know everything afterwards. I only want to ascertain if they are really in the house we suspect. You’ll read all about it in the papers later on.”

“Right you are, sir. This gentleman and I will carry on till you come and mend the breakdown,” said the driver. “But”--and he hesitated--“do you know anything about engines?”

“Nothing whatever,” replied Darville with a laugh, “so it will be the more easy.”

All three laughed heartily, whereupon Paton got into the vehicle, which drove out, back again through the misty streets towards Edinburgh, and out on the other side of the city.

As soon as they had gone, Darville smeared his hands with grease and made a few dirty marks upon his face, transforming his usual neat, perhaps dapper, appearance to that of a hard-working motor mechanic. His overalls were very dirty and very worn, with an ugly patch on the right elbow, and he had removed his tie, so that he only wore a rather dirty collar, giving him an appearance of negligence, and, with a seedy old golf cap a size too large for him perched upon his head, his disguise was complete. Only he himself knew the extreme seriousness of the result of his journey there to Scotland. He went out into the yard, lit a cigarette, and then lounged out into the deserted Portobello Road. A silence that is almost uncanny lies about a Scotch town on Sunday morning, and that occasion was no exception.

Presently he strolled back impatiently, until at last the telephone bell rang and was answered by the man in charge of the garage.

“You’re wanted at Strathnairn Road!” he shouted to the new mechanic. “Robbie will drive you. Robbie! Robbie!” And he shouted the name several times before a short, gray-faced, hobbling old man put in an appearance, and five minutes later Darville was traveling out over the road which Paton had taken.

After a quarter of an hour Darville, leaning out of the window, said:

“Don’t go too near Strathnairn Road. Drop me about ten minutes’ walk away, and then go back to the garage.”

“All right!” answered the gray-bearded, little old man, and they continued their way.

At last, at a point in the broad highway leading to Bonnyfield, the taxi pulled up, and Darville lugged out his heavy tool-bag.

“Straight on. First on the right,” said the old driver, who then turned his taxi and started to return.

In a few moments the mechanic--as Darville had now become--espied Paton lounging along, pipe in mouth, apparently quite self-absorbed, and taking no interest whatever in anything. The man who had crossed Europe so hastily plodded on, finding the bag unusually heavy, until at last, turning the corner suddenly, he found McLay with the bonnet off, examining his dilapidated engine.

Darville glanced up the long, gray thoroughfare of regular stone-built houses of similar architecture, each with its flight of steps leading to its front door, with a bay-window at the side.

He was always afraid of a bay-window. The watched-for person could so easily be concealed behind heavy lace curtains, or, worse still, those dusty Victorian abominations called venetian blinds.

“I’ve been watching, sir, but nobody’s come out of the house, except a girl who opened the front door and took in the milk. They get up pretty late, it seems,” McLay remarked, his face still bent upon his engine.

“Well, let’s carry on,” said Darville cheerily, throwing down his tool-bag with a bang. “You screw off things, and I’ll clean them up. We may have to play this little game quite a long time, so don’t let us be impatient.”

Glancing behind him, he saw Paton, a rather crestfallen object, passing the end of the road.

Darville lit a cigarette, and both men, smoking leisurely, discussed the breakdown. The novelist pretended not to glance at the house, but in reply to his question _sotto voce_, the taxi-driver said:

“It’s that house with the ivy on it on this side of the way, sir. The blinds are still down. They don’t get up very early, eh?”

With covert glance Darville examined the place, wondering what secrets it contained, and, further, whether Caborn and his wife were actually hidden there.

Soon they set to work in real earnest, and, unscrewing parts of the engine, Darville cleaned them well, and slowly replaced them. Now and then he made a mistake, being surreptitiously corrected by the young driver.

Presently a young police-constable wandered along to the corner, and, after a glance, bade the pair good-morning in his pronounced accent of the North.

“What’s up?” he asked inquisitively.

“Oh, an infernal breakdown,” was McLay’s reply. “I brought a gent out here from the Waverley Station and dropped him, and now I can’t get back. This taxi’s always breaking down. I’m sick of it!”

“Get somebody to tow you home,” was the officer’s friendly advice. “I would”; and he passed slowly along upon his beat.

An hour passed, but no sign of life appeared at No. 286. The house with the ivy seemed to be closed and deserted. Paton, who had watched the constable’s interest from afar, now strolled up.

“What’s that ass want to put his nose into it for, I wonder?” he remarked with some annoyance. Paton, great detective that he was, always resented any inquisitiveness shown by any uniformed man.

Then, without waiting for a reply, he strolled along the Strathnairn Road in order to thoroughly explore it. He found to his relief that it ended in a cul-de-sac. Therefore, anyone coming out must pass the broken-down taxi.

Time still went on. Noon passed. People came from various houses and went out upon their Sunday morning walks, some with their children, and others with their pet dogs, most people being dressed in their best, for, though cold, the sun now shone.

The constable returned, crossed again to the broken car, and chatted to Darville, who was kneeling beside it pretending to tighten up a nut. Then again the uniformed officer moved away, watched from the distance by the lounger Paton.

“It’s a waiting game, isn’t it, sir?” remarked McLay, lighting a fresh cigarette.

“Yes,” replied Darville. “I’m afraid we’ll never be able to put all those parts together again”; and he grinned at the row of bolts and nuts and other small parts which he had arranged in a row along the curb.

“Oh, that’ll be quite all right, sir,” was the taxi-driver’s cheery answer. And Darville again glanced along that dull, gray street, so dismal and dispiriting after the blue sky and brilliant Adriatic sunshine he had so recently left.

At about half-past one o’clock, just as Darville was bent double in an effort to unloosen an unusually tight nut, his quick eye noticed the door of No. 286 open and the well-dressed figure of a man descend the flight of steps. The newcomer glanced up and down, and then commenced to walk in the direction of the taxi.

Instantly Darville recognized him as the man Caborn, Joan’s husband, though he was now clean-shaven, so that his features seemed to possess a marked Hebraic cast. Next second the novelist took out his handkerchief and mopped the perspiration from his brow. That was the signal prearranged with Paton, who, in a moment alert, covertly watched the stranger’s progress.

Caborn, as he approached the taxi, glanced at it with interest, and then passed along and, turning the corner, walked airily and entirely without suspicion along the broad road which led back to Stockbridge and Edinburgh.

Was Joan in that house also? Darville, delighted with his success, rose and stretched himself, saying:

“That’s the man! We were not mistaken after all!”

“Has he run away with a girl?” asked the driver, full of curiosity.

“Yes. With a young woman. And we suppose she’s in the house now. Let’s wait a bit longer. We might see her, too.”

“Right you are, sir. I’m quite game for it,” the young fellow answered him. So they paused in their pretended work and indulged in another smoke, though they were very hungry and thirsty.

After an hour Caborn suddenly reappeared, repassed the taxi, and reëntered the house.

“In any case, the lady won’t come out yet,” Darville remarked. “They’ll have lunch. So let’s go and have a bite of something ourselves”; a suggestion to which McLay at once agreed.

Paton was signaled to and joined them.

“Well,” asked Darville, “where did he go?”

“To a house about half a mile away. There are three foreigners there--working men, apparently. I’ll have the place watched as soon as I can get a ’phone message through to London. I didn’t like that darned young constable putting his nose into the business. He annoyed me.”

“Yes. But we’re just off for food. Stay here and look after the wreck, in case that fool comes along again and raises trouble--taxi left unattended and so on! I’ll bring you back a sandwich or something, Sandy. The lady may be with him. We must find that out by some means.”

“I only wish I could deliver that jewelry. But if I gave her a dud box it would give the game away,” Sandy said to himself as Darville and the driver walked away in search of food.