Flynn’s Weekly Detective Fiction. Vol. 27, No. 2, September 24, 1927

“All right.” Pink grinned. “I hope he’s collared. I’ll be waiting for him when he comes out. Tell him I’m thinking about his proposition.”

Kitty went. She hurried. She made straight for the nearest telephone box and was inside it for some time. She was tense and strained.

Things were wrong. It drummed in her head. There had been an unforeseen slip somewhere.

She took a taxi homeward. There seemed nothing else to do.

And Pink, sitting in his bedroom after she had gone, found the door of it opened without preliminary knocking. He tried to reach for his gun, but he found that he was too late.

Chapter XVI “The Nearest But Not Near Enough”

Kitty’s flat at Kensington was situated in a block of so-called mansions standing in a quiet square. It was as nice as any place situated in the heart of London ever could be. Which means to say that its sunshine was always robbed of half its violet rays by tons and tons of smoke; that it was invaded many times during the winter by hideous fog; and that always there came to it, threateningly, the roar of ceaseless traffic.

In the hot weather it was afflicted by the smells of burned petrol and heated woodblocks. In compensation for these deficiencies one could, of course, always get a taxi at the door, and there were many theatres, music halls and picture houses and restaurants near at hand. Of such is life composed.

Open country and swinging seas have nothing on a good picture house and a London taxi ride. Besides, she lived near the cognoscenti, whatever they may be. “Everybody” lived in London, although when “London was empty” it always seemed just as full, an enigma inexplicable up to this very day.

On the little things of everyday life great issues may sometimes hang.

Kitty’s flat door had two locks — one of them an ordinary lock with a doorknob each side. This could be locked by turning the key, or left latched so that the door could be opened from either side by use of the knob. This was never locked.

It was reenforced by a Yale lock, which was the strong point of the door’s defenses. The Yale was the fellow who was designed to keep out the burglars. Everybody knows that a Yale lock can be put out of action by turning back the little knob and slipping up a small catch, when the tongue of the lock is held back. When Kitty’s Yale lock was in that position, the flat door could be opened by turning the knob of the lock below the Yale.

Kitty reached her flat and put the key in the Yale lock. She was perturbed. All the way from Rotherhithe she had wondered what had become of Smith; and the more she wondered the stronger grew her conviction of peril.

She had bought an evening paper on her way, and had read that Jim Lansdale was released, a knowledge which brought her some thankfulness and a curious sense of shame. Behind her anxiety was a gnawing unhappiness.

She let herself into the flat.

The front door gave entry to a little square hall, very tasteful in decoration, from which the various rooms opened. The doors of some of these rooms were not closed, and Kitty had a swift glimpse of her own bedroom, delicate, perfumed; and a swift glimpse of a mirror in the sitting room. Reflected in that mirror was Bill Smith.

Kitty’s hand went up to the Yale lock. She closed the door. She walked into the sitting room.

It was an act of terrific courage.

She could have bolted, but her jaunty spirit refused to find refuge in flight. Besides — she wanted something — something of which the night had hitherto cheated her.

She said: “Why didn’t you come along to Pink’s? And how did you get here?”

“Your maid let me in,” said Smith. “She’s tied up on her bed now, and gagged.”

“I see,” said Kitty; and told herself that, for once, her assurance had made her overstep the mark. She had been a fool to come into the flat. “Well?”

Smith got to his feet and leaned against the mantelshelf. He looked changed, harder than ever, more terrible.

He said: “You’re a clever woman.”

Kitty nodded. “Cute, I think you once said. But you’re a clever man. How did you discover the truth?”

“Trevelyan. I was sent for by his solicitor. I found he’d been shifted. It struck me — you know.” Smith was speaking in conversational tones. “I asked a lot of questions. The solicitor had had a tip. None of it was direct, but it all pointed one way. I sent a smart man down to Danden Street. He recognized one or two well-known people. He saw Pink taken away. That was good enough for me. I knew!”

A gun seemed to come to Smith’s hand by magic. He added, with a snarl: “Hold your arms above your head. So! Stand still!”

He stepped forward and, feeling at her skirt, located her little pistol pocket and relieved her of the weapon.

“Now you can sit down,” he said.

She did so. Her heart was beating very steadily, but slightly more heavily. She was watchful and alert; and all the time she realized the stupendous folly of that entry into the flat.