The Trail of Fear

The evening crowds of Piccadilly drifted to and fro under the lights like colored artificial leaves in a stage-ballet. All the usual types were there; early theater-goers slipping from taxis into restaurant doorways under the eye of haughty commissionaires; young men with questing eyes searching for an evening's amusement; girls with prying glances under the paint, moving in a haze of patchouli and silk-clad ankles; match-sellers, beggars, and newsboys; shop-girls on their way home; old gentlemen walking to the club for their evening pick-me-up; bus crowds, shop-window drifters, bar drifters, and a sprinkling of poor people come to the free display of window-dressing and electric signs. All were there, always the same yet always changing, the innumerable kaleidoscopic units that went to make up the Piccadilly crowds.

But on this particular March evening there were three units that, though separate, appeared to be bound together by invisible strings, so uniformly did they follow behind one another. The first was a seedy looking man in ragged clothes shuffling along by the wall-side as if afraid of the more open spaces of the pavement. The second about six or seven yards behind was a girl of the Piccadilly class who though originally going in the opposite direction had at some sign turned and followed. The third man, square-shouldered, in clothes that seemed to hang from him like a military tunic, with keen eyes and a short close-clipped moustache under a hard bowler hat, was a further ten yards behind the girl.

The three drifted on, together yet apart, the pace set by the ragged man in front, till at last he turned a corner into one of the side streets on the north of Piccadilly. At their varying intervals the others followed, till at last, leaving the shops behind, the first man stopped and turning in toward the railing, drew a cigarette from behind his ear and lit up. The flare of the match illumined his vicious, unintelligent face for a moment and his shifty eyes flickered to his right toward the following girl. Then he threw away the empty match-box and shuffled on. The little box lay white in the light of a street lamp, an isolated bit of jetsam on the smooth, hard pavement. The girl drew close. As she passed, she dropped her vanity bag and stooped to pick it up. When she straightened herself, the discarded matchbox was no longer there.

The square-shouldered man some way behind quickened his pace. He knew very well that the match-box was not empty, that it held a little packet of white powderâcocaine. He knew very well too that a little further on the ragged man would be found begging on the curb and would receive from the girl a far bigger sum than beggars usually received. That was only one of the many tricks for the disposal of “dope” and on his evidence he could easily convict the woman of being in possession and the man of supplying. But it was not for that that he, Detective Inspector Harrison, had been put on to this by Scotland Yard. At the Yard they had latterly held a theory that the growing menace of the dope traffic in London was now almost entirely due to the operations of one gang who smuggled it in cheap from the continent and distributed it down through an elaborate chain of agents, ending eventually in men such as the loafer who had just thrown the match-box away. To convict and imprison him, therefore, would be but to attack the symptoms and not the causeâlike doctoring one spot on a person infected with measles. There were hundreds of other spots and, even if they were all doctored, the disease would break out elsewhere. Tonight Harrison was after bigger fish; for nothing could ever be learned from these small fry, a fact which had confirmed Scotland Yard in its belief that there was some big organization behind. But try as he would, amid all these veins and capillaries, so far he had found himself unable to put his finger on the central undiscoverable heart.

He walked on, overtaking the woman, who little knew what she had escaped, secure in the ignorance of the small fish who swims through the big meshes of a net. Harrison was now following the man ahead, as he had followed his kind for two or three nights before, trying to discover whence he got his supplies. At the corner he passed the man, cap off, on the curb edge, and without turning he knew that behind him the “beggar” had received an “alms.” Waiting for him under pretence of lighting a cigarette he again took up the pursuit and followed him round into Bond Street, where another signal passed and another match-box was thrown away. Then back again into Piccadilly where a small packet was affixed secretly to a lamp post by means of chewing gum and detached a moment later by a haggard young Jew who stopped there to light a cigarette.

With his other nights' failures behind him, Harrison began to get furious. Here was the “dope” being put out under his very nose and he was doing nothing, because he was after something bigger. He
must
find out where the fellow renewed his stock of “snow,” but though the man was obviously not clever, he possessed all the cunning of the drug fiend in procuring his supplies. Harrison followed him for ten minutes, till he came to the entrance to the Piccadilly Tube in Haymarket. Here the detective's keen eye again spotted yet another transaction, this time with a man selling papers. He swore to himself at the futility of it all,âand then suddenly drew a sharp breath. He believed he was on to a clue at last. The paper man was a thin lanky fellow with cunning eyes and a furtive look, but Harrison was fairly certain he was not a drug addict. In that case, perhaps what he had thought was another “delivery” was really a deal the other way. The paper seller was another link in the chain and this time one higher up. He did not peddle to anyone, he passed out the cocaine to those who did, and without doubt received it from someone else.

Harrison at once let the first man go and set himself to observe the paper seller. It seemed a forlorn hope because probably the fellow fetched the stuff from his suppliers at some secret and prearranged time, but still he might learn something of interest. He bought a paper from him, studying him carefully the while, then went and leaned against a wall, the paper held in front of his face. The crowds flowed past him, laughing, chattering, intent on their own affairs, heedless of the little drama that was being played out at their elbows. A few yards away at the road junction stood a policeman solidly protective. Harrison thought cynically that if one could see into the heart of every person who passed Piccadilly Circus that policeman would not have much time left for mere traffic directing.

Several people approached the paper man, bought papers and went away. No one suspicious. The man, who was evidently on a higher mental plane than the first loafer, kept his eyes darting hither and thither in a shifty manner that betrayed consciousness of guilt. Twice he looked narrowly at Harrison and once lounged round the corner out of sight. But the detective was too wise to be caught by that, though he had to take the risk of the man meeting his accomplice unobserved. Had he in turn moved so as to get a view of him in his new position, he would have given away the fact that he was watching. He stayed unconcernedly where he was and after a short while the man reappeared on his old pitch, though glancing occasionally at Harrison as if still doubtful of him.

At last his vigilance was rewarded. A small well-dressed man came up, hand outstretched for a paper. Harrison caught the faintest flicker of an eye from the man he was watching and was instantly on the alert. There was some understanding between the two. He grew more and more certain that he had hit upon yet another link in the chain which he was striving to break and this time an important one.

The paper was purchased, and the two men stood talking for a moment quite openly. Harrison moved forward a pace; he did not know what to do. Even if he were able to eavesdrop, he knew he would learn nothing. He gave them credit for having a story ready,âprobably a “tip” for tomorrow's racesâwhich would explain any furtive conversation. If only he could see something passed or could catch themâparticularly the more important one of the twoâwith something on him. But by the jerk of the paper-boy's head he knew that he was already under suspicion. Nothing would be passed and yet he was certain that the newcomer had it. But he now had to deal with a cleverer type of brain. To follow him would effect nothing. By himself he could soon be thrown off the scent in this crowd by any of the old tricks. He could do nothing without proof and, certain though he was, he had nothing to back his suspicions.

The smaller man turned and began to walk away. In another moment he would be swallowed up in the crowd. Harrison had a sudden inspiration. He might yet try to bluff. With a clever man, certain of himself, he knew this would not work, but he was calculating on the other man's appearance. Despite his cunning eyes, his air of gentility and his self-confidence, there were lines of weakness about his mouth which hinted that in an actual clash of personalities he might be overcome by the stronger. Besides his fears had probably been aroused by what his accomplice had told him and he would not know how much the detective really knew.

Harrison walked quickly round the corner and before the other could lose himself in the crowd was at his side. He was staking everything on the next few minutes.

“A word with you,” he said shortly.

The other started at the touch of Harrison's hand on his shoulder, but it was only for a bare instant. He turned with a politely inquiring expression, as if he had been asked to direct a stranger: “Yes, can I do anything?”

“You can,” said Harrison grimly. “You can come along with me to Scotland Yard. You're caught at last, my friend.”

“Caught? Scotland Yard?” The other was curious, yet uninterested, as if the matter did not concern him, but Harrison fancied he saw a flicker of fear in the depths of his eyes. “I'm afraid I don't understand.”

Harrison spoke with the assumed impatience of the man who is exasperated at waste of words and futile pretence of misunderstanding.

“Now it's no good trying to bluff,” he said sharply. “I'm an Inspector from the Yard. We know who you are and we've been watching you for several days. You're wanted for dope runningâbeing in possession and disposing. We know from whom you get it,” he went on confidently, “and we know where it goes to.” He spoke with an air of unconcern as though to humor the other in all his pretence of not knowing what was the matter. He hoped that by thus appearing to fling all his cards on the table, as if they were invincible, his opponent would not see that they were by no means all trumps.

“All this is absurd,” began the little man, still with an easy air of tolerance. “You've got the wrong person. I fear you've made a mistake. Good-day.”

“Stop!” said Harrison. His hand shot out detaining the other by the coat. “It's no good bluffing, man. I know you've got the stuff on you.”

“Look here, my good sir, this is past a joke. You can't stop respectable citizens in the street and accuse them of extraordinary crimes without any proof.”

“Oh, I've got proof enough. Someone's snouted on you,” he added cleverly.

“Nonsense,” said the other quickly, and then he bit his lip. He realized he had made a false move. Had he stopped to think, he would have seen that the ordinary respectable citizen would probably not have known a slang word current amongst criminals and detectives. Having guessed that the other was bluffing, it had given him a false sense of security. He tried to cover up his slip; for he knew he had only to walk away and the detective would be helpless.

“Even if your absurd statements were true,” he went on quickly, “you can't search me on suspicion.” He turned on his heel, but the man from the Yard spoke quickly in compelling tones, drawing a small whistle from his pocket as he did so.

“You can either come with me without making a scene or else I'll blow this whistle for the policeman on point duty and have you arrested as a pickpocket.” He stepped back a pace. “A moment ago I slipped a watch into your pocket which I can prove to be mine. In the search for my property I shall ensure of course thatâerâother things will be found.”

The mask of politeness dropped suddenly from the other's face. He looked furtively around. There were two policemen near by and many people; also the detective was bigger and stronger than he was. He clapped a hand to his pocket, wondering whether he might not have time to throw the incriminating watch away, but the whistle at once went up to the other's lips.

Two minutes later, accompanied by a policeman, they were in a taxi being driven to Scotland Yard. Harrison had in his hand four or five little packets containing white powder which he had taken from under a secret flap in the other's cigarette case. He had laid a finger on one link in the chain and from his knowledge of character he was fairly certain that it was a weak one and that he would know of others before the hour was out. The man at his side who had been so easily worsted did not seem to him to be the type that would refuse to give away his friends if he had the opportunity and was suitably “persuaded.” And Harrison was privately of the opinion that the next link in the chain above would no doubt be the organizer of the whole gang, the master mind that was importing the “dope” and putting it out through his agentsâin short, the one man that they were after.

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