The point for which I was making was only some
three hundred yards further along, but I had noted that the constable
had walked off in the opposite direction. Therefore, arriving at my
destination--a vacant wharf open to the road--I pulled up and listened.
Only the wash of the tide upon the piles of the wharf was audible, for
the night was now far advanced.
I opened the door of the cab and dragged out "Le Balafre." Right and
left I peered, truly like a stage villain, and then hauled my
unpleasant burden along the irregularly paved path and on to the
little wharf. Out in mid-stream a Thames Police patrol was passing,
and I stood for a moment until the creak of the oars grew dim.
Then: there was a dull splash far below ... and silence again.
Gaston Max had been consigned to a watery grave!
Returning again to the garage, I wondered very much who he had been,
this one, "Le Balafre." Could it be that he was "The Scorpion"? I
could not tell, but I had hopes very shortly of finding out. I had
settled up my affairs with my landlady and had removed from my
apartments all papers and other effects. In the garage I had placed
a good suit of clothes and other necessities, and by telephone I had
secured a room at a West-End hotel.
The cab returned to the stable, I locked the door, and by the light
of one of the lamps, shaved off my beard and moustache. My uniform
and cap I hung up on the hook where I usually left them after working
hours, and changed into the suit which I had placed there in readiness.
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