The Greatest Thrillers of Edgar Wallace. Edgar Wallace
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game? where are you takin’ me?”
“The game is the old game,” said Mr. Howard sadly— “the same old game, Bill, and I’m taking you to the same old sweet spot.”
“You’ve made a mistake this time, guv’nor,” cried Bill fiercely, and there was a slight clink.
“Permit me, Billy,” said Mr Howard, stooping quickly and picking up the purse Billy had dropped.
At the police station the sergeant behind the charge desk pretended to be greatly overjoyed at Billy’s arrival, and the gaoler, who put Billy into a steel-barred dock, and passed his hands through cunning pockets, greeted him as a friend.
“Gold watch, half a chain, gold, three purses, two handkerchiefs, and a red moroccer pocketbook,” reported the gaoler.
The sergeant nodded approvingly.
“Quite a good day’s work, William,” he said.
“What shall I get this time?” inquired the prisoner, and Mr Howard, a plainclothes officer engaged in filling in particulars of the charge, opined nine moons.
“Go on!” exclaimed Mr Billy Marks in consternation.
“Fact,” said the sergeant; “you’re a rogue and a vagabond, Billy, you’re a petty larcenist, and you’re for the sessions this time — Number Eight.”
This latter was addressed to the gaoler, who bore Billy off to the cells protesting vigorously against a police force that could only tumble to poor blokes, and couldn’t get a touch on sanguinary murderers like the Four Just Men.
“What do we pay rates and taxes for?” indignantly demanded Billy through the grating of his cell.
“Fat lot you’ll ever pay, Billy,” said the gaoler, putting the double lock on the door.
In the charge office Mr Howard and the sergeant were examining the stolen property, and three owners, discovered by PC Porter, were laying claim to their own.
“That disposes of all the articles except the gold watch and the pocketbook,” said the sergeant after the claimants had gone, “gold watch, Elgin half-hunter N05029020, pocketbook containing no papers, no card, no address, and only three pages of writing. What this means I don’t know.” The sergeant handed the book to Howard. The page that puzzled the policeman contained simply a list of streets. Against each street was scrawled a cabalistic character.
“Looks like the diary of a paperchase,” said Mr Howard. “What is on the other pages?” They turned the leaf. This was filled with figures.
“H’m,” said the disappointed sergeant, and again turned overleaf. The contents of this page was understandable and readable although evidently written in a hurry as though it had been taken down at dictation.
“The chap who wrote this must have had a train to catch,” said the facetious Mr Howard, pointing to the abbreviations:
Will not leave D.S., except for Hs. Will drive to Hs in M.C. (4 dummy brghms first), 8.30. At 2 600 p arve traf divtd Embank, 80 spls. inside D.S. One each rm, three each cor, six basmt, six rf. All drs wide opn allow each off see another, all spls will carry revr. Nobody except F and H to approach R. In Hse strange gal filled with spl, all press vouched for. 200 spl. in cor. If nee battalion guards at disposal.
The policeman read this over slowly.
“Now what the devil does that mean?” asked the sergeant helplessly.
It was at that precise moment that Constable Howard earned his promotion.
“Let me have that book for ten minutes,” he said excitedly. The sergeant handed the book over with wondering stare.
“I think I can find an owner for this,” said Howard, his hand trembling as he took the book, and ramming his hat on his head he ran out into the street.
He did not stop running until he reached the main road, and finding a cab he sprang in with a hurried order to the driver.
“Whitehall, and drive like blazes,” he called, and in a few minutes he was explaining his errand to the inspector in charge of the cordon that guarded the entrance of Downing Street.
“Constable Howard, 946 L. reserve,” he introduced himself. “I’ve a very important message for Superintendent Falmouth.”
That officer, looking tired and beaten, listened to the policeman’s story.
“It looks to me,” went on Howard breathlessly, “as though this has something to do with your case, sir. D.S. is Downing Street, and — —” He produced the book and Falmouth snatched at it.
He read a few words and then gave a triumphant cry.
“Our secret instructions,” he cried, and catching the constable by the arm he drew him to the entrance hall.
“Is my car outside?” he asked, and in response to a whistle a car drew up. “Jump in, Howard,” said the detective, and the car slipped into Whitehall.
“Who is the thief?” asked the senior.
“Billy Marks, sir,” replied Howard; “you may not know him, but down at Lambeth he is a well-known character.”
“Oh, yes,” Falmouth hastened to correct, “I know Billy very well indeed — we’ll see what he has to say.”
The car drew up at the police station and the two men jumped out.
The sergeant rose to his feet as he recognised the famous Falmouth, and saluted.
“I want to see the prisoner Marks,” said Falmouth shortly, and Billy, roused from his sleep, came blinking into the charge office.
“Now, Billy,” said the detective, “I’ve got a few words to say to you.”
“Why, it’s Mr Falmouth,” said the astonished Billy, and something like fear shaded his face. “I wasn’t in that ‘Oxton affair, s’help me.”
“Make your mind easy, Billy; I don’t want you for anything, and if you’ll answer my questions truthfully, you may get off the present charge and get a reward into the bargain.”
Billy was suspicious.
“I’m not going to give anybody away if that’s what you mean,” he said sullenly.
“Nor that either,” said the detective impatiently. “I want to know where you found this pocketbook,” and he held it up.
Billy grinned.
“Found it lyin’ on the pavement,” he lied.
“I want the truth,” thundered Falmouth.
“Well,” said Billy sulkily, “I pinched it.”
“From whom?”
“I didn’t stop to ask him his name,” was the impudent reply.
The detective breathed deeply.
“Now, look here,” he said, lowering his voice, “you’ve heard about the Four Just Men?”
Billy nodded, opening his eyes in amazement at the question.
“Well,” exclaimed Falmouth impressively, “the man to whom this pocketbook belongs is one of them.”
“What!” cried Billy.
“For his capture there is a reward of a thousand pounds offered. If your description leads to his arrest that thousand is yours.”
Marks stood paralysed at the thought.
“A thousand — a thousand?” he muttered in a dazed fashion, “and I might just as easily have caught him.”
“Come, come!” cried the detective sharply, “you may