The Greatest Thrillers of Edgar Wallace. Edgar Wallace
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that are being made by the police, but I should imagine that by tomorrow night it will be as difficult to get within a dozen yards of Ramon as it would be for a Siberian prisoner to dine with the Czar.”
“Is there no possibility of Ramon withdrawing the Bill?” asked the Colonies.
The Premier shook his head.
“Absolutely none,” he said.
The rising of a member of the Opposition front bench at that moment to move an amendment to a clause under discussion cut short the conversation.
The House rapidly emptied when it became generally known that Ramon did not intend appearing, and the members gathered in the smoking-room and lobby to speculate upon the matter which was uppermost in their minds.
In the vicinity of Palace Yard a great crowd had gathered, as in London crowds will gather, on the off-chance of catching a glimpse of the man whose name was in every mouth. Street vendors sold his portrait, frowsy men purveying the real life and adventures of the Four Just Men did a roaring trade, and itinerant street singers, introducing extemporised verses into their repertoire, declaimed the courage of that statesman bold, who dared for to resist the threats of coward alien and deadly anarchist.
There was praise in these poor lyrics for Sir Philip, who was trying to prevent the foreigner from taking the bread out of the mouths of honest working men.
The humour of which appealed greatly to Manfred, who, with Poiccart, had driven to the Westminster end of the Embankment; having dismissed their cab, they were walking to Whitehall.
“I think the verse about the ‘deadly foreign anarchist’ taking the bread out of the mouth of the homemade variety is distinctly good,” chuckled Manfred.
Both men were in evening dress, and Poiccart wore in his buttonhole the silken button of a Chevalier of the Legion d’Honneur.
Manfred continued:
“I doubt whether London has had such a sensation since — when?”
Poiccart’s grim smile caught the other’s eye and he smiled in sympathy.
“Well?”
“I asked the same question of the maitre d’hotel,” he said slowly, like a man loath to share a joke; “he compared the agitation to the atrocious East-End murders.”
Manfred stopped dead and looked with horror on his companion.
“Great heavens!” he exclaimed in distress, “it never occurred to me that we should be compared with — him!”
They resumed their walk.
“It is part of the eternal bathos,” said Poiccart serenely; “even De Quincey taught the English nothing. The God of Justice has but one interpreter here, and he lives in a public-house in Lancashire, and is an expert and dexterous disciple of the lamented Marwood, whose system he has improved upon.”
They were traversing that portion of Whitehall from which Scotland Yard runs.
A man, slouching along with bent head and his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his tattered coat, gave them a swift sidelong glance, stopped when they had passed, and looked after them. Then he turned and quickened his shuffle on their trail. A press of people and a seeming ceaseless string of traffic at the corner of Cockspur Street brought Manfred and Poiccart to a standstill, waiting for an opportunity to cross the road. They were subjected to a little jostling as the knot of waiting people thickened, but eventually they crossed and walked towards St Martin’s Lane.
The comparison which Poiccart had quoted still rankled with Manfred.
“There will be people at His Majesty’s tonight,” he said, “applauding Brutus as he asks, ‘What villain touched his body and not for justice?’ You will not find a serious student of history, or any commonplace man of intelligence, for the matter of that, who, if you asked, Would it not have been God’s blessing for the world if Bonaparte had been assassinated on his return from Egypt? would not answer without hesitation, Yes. But we — we are murderers!”
“They would not have erected a statue of Napoleon’s assassin,” said Poiccart easily, “any more than they have enshrined Felton, who slew a profligate and debauched Minister of Charles I. Posterity may do us justice,” he spoke half mockingly; “for myself I am satisfied with the approval of my conscience.”
He threw away the cigar he was smoking, and put his hand to the inside pocket of his coat to find another. He withdrew his hand without the cigar and whistled a passing cab.
Manfred looked at him in surprise.
“What is the matter? I thought you said you would walk?”
Nevertheless he entered the hansom and Poiccart followed, giving his direction through the trap, “Baker Street Station.”
The cab was rattling through Shaftesbury Avenue before Poiccart gave an explanation.
“I have been robbed,” he said, sinking his voice, “my watch has gone, but that does not matter; the pocketbook with the notes I made for the guidance of Thery has gone — and that matters a great deal.”
“It may have been a common thief,” said Manfred: “he took the watch.”
Poiccart was feeling his pockets rapidly.
“Nothing else has gone,” he said; “it may have been as you say, a pickpocket, who will be content with the watch and will drop the notebook down the nearest drain; but it may be a police agent.”
“Was there anything in it to identify you?” asked Manfred, in a troubled tone.
“Nothing,” was the prompt reply; “but unless the police are blind they would understand the calculations and the plans. It may not come to their hands at all, but if it does and the thief can recognise us we are in a fix.”
The cab drew up at the down station at Baker Street, and the two men alighted.
“I shall go east,” said Poiccart, “we will meet in the morning. By that time I shall have learnt whether the book has reached Scotland Yard. Goodnight.”
And with no other farewell than this the two men parted.
If Billy Marks had not had a drop of drink he would have been perfectly satisfied with his night’s work. Filled, however, with that false liquid confidence that leads so many good men astray, Billy thought it would be a sin to neglect the opportunities that the gods had shown him. The excitement engendered by the threats of the Four Just Men had brought all suburban London to Westminster, and on the Surrey side of the bridge Billy found hundreds of patient suburbanites waiting for conveyance to Streatham, Camberwell, Clapham, and Greenwich.
So, the night being comparatively young, Billy decided to work the trams.
He touched a purse from a stout old lady in black, a Waterbury watch from a gentleman in a top hat, a small hand mirror from a dainty bag, and decided to conclude his operations with the exploration of a superior young lady’s pocket.
Billy’s search was successful. A purse and a lace handkerchief rewarded him, and he made arrangements for a modest retirement. Then it was that a gentle voice breathed into his ear. “Hullo, Billy!”
He knew the voice, and felt momentarily unwell.
“Hullo, Mister Howard,” he exclaimed with feigned joy; “‘ow are you, sir? Fancy meetin’ you!”
“Where are you going, Billy?” asked the welcome Mr. Howard, taking Billy’s arm affectionately.
“‘Ome,” said the virtuous Billy.
“Home it is,” said Mr. Howard, leading the unwilling Billy from the crowd; “home, sweet home, it is, Billy.” He called another young man, with whom he seemed to be acquainted: “Go on that car, Porter, and see who has lost anything. If you can find anyone bring them along”;