THE COMPLETE FOUR JUST MEN SERIES (6 Detective Thrillers in One Edition). Edgar Wallace

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      “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 catch him yet — tell us what he looked like.”

      Billy knitted his brows in thought.

      “He looked like a gentleman,” he said, trying to recall from the chaos of his mind a picture of his victim; “he had a white weskit, a white shirt, nice patent shoes — —”

      “But his face — his face!” demanded the detective.

      “His face?” cried Billy indignantly, “how do I know what it looked like? I don’t look a chap in the face when I’m pinching his watch, do I?”

Chapter IX

       The Cupidity of Marks

       Table of Contents

      “You cursed dolt, you infernal fool!” stormed the detective, catching Billy by the collar and shaking him like a rat. “Do you mean to tell me that you had one of the Four Just Men in your hand, and did not even take the trouble to look at him?”

      Billy wrenched himself free.

      “You leave me alone!” he said defiantly. “How was I to know it was one of the Four Just Men, and how do you know it was?” he added with a cunning twist of his face. Billy’s mind was beginning to work rapidly. He saw in this staggering statement of the detective a chance of making capital out of the position which to within a few minutes he had regarded as singularly unfortunate.

      “I did get a bit of a glance at ‘em,” he said, “they — —”

      “Them — they?” said the detective quickly. “How many were there?”

      “Never mind,” said Billy sulkily. He felt the strength of his position.

      “Billy,” said the detective earnestly, “I mean business; if you know anything you’ve got to tell us!’

      “Ho!” cried the prisoner in defiance. “Got to, ‘ave I? Well, I know the lor as well as you — you can’t make a chap speak if he don’t want. You can’t — —”

      The detective signalled the other police officers to retire, and when they were out of earshot he dropped his voice and said:

      “Harry Moss came out last week.”

      Billy flushed and lowered his eyes.

      “I don’t know no Harry Moss,” he muttered doggedly.

      “Harry Moss came out last week,” continued the detective shortly, “after doing three years for robbery with violence — three years and ten lashes.”

      “I don’t know anything about it,” said Marks in the same tone.

      “He got clean away and the police had no clues,” the detective went on remorselessly, “and they might not have caught him to this day, only — only ‘from information received’ they took him one night out of his bed in Leman Street.”

      Billy licked his dry lips, but did not speak.

      “Harry Moss would like to know who he owes his three stretch to — and the ten. Men who’ve had the cat have a long memory, Billy.”

      “That’s not playing the game, Mr. Falmouth,” cried Billy thickly. “I — I was a bit hard up, an’ Harry Moss wasn’t a pal of mine — and the p’lice wanted to find out — —”

      “And the police want to find out now,” said Falmouth.

      Billy Marks made no reply for a moment.

      “I’ll tell you all there is to be told,” he said at last, and cleared his throat. The detective stopped him.

      “Not here,” he said. Then turning to the officer in charge:

      “Sergeant, you may release this man on bail — I will stand sponsor.” The humorous side of this appealed to Billy at least, for he grinned sheepishly and recovered his former spirits.

      “First time I’ve been bailed out by the p’lice,” he remarked facetiously.

      The motorcar bore the detective and his charge to Scotland Yard, and in Superintendent Falmouth’s office Billy prepared to unburden himself.

      “Before you begin,” said the officer, “I want to warn you that you must be as brief as possible. Every minute is precious.”

      So Billy told his story. In spite of the warning there were embellishments, to which the detective was forced to listen impatiently.

      At last the pickpocket reached the point.

      “There was two of ‘em, one a tall chap and one not so tall. I heard one say ‘My dear George’ — the little one said that, the one I took the ticker from and the pocketbook. Was there anything in the notebook?” Billy asked suddenly.

      “Go on,” said the detective.

      “Well,” resumed Billy, “I follered ’em up to the end of the street, and they was waitin’ to cross towards Charing Cross Road when I lifted the clock, you understand?”

      “What time was this?”

      “‘Arf past ten — or it might’ve been eleven.”

      “And you did not see their faces?”

      The thief shook his head emphatically.

      “If I never get up from where I’m sittin’ I didn’t, Mr Falmouth,” he said earnestly.

      The detective rose with a sigh.

      “I’m afraid you’re not much use to me, Billy,” he said ruefully. “Did you notice whether they wore beards, or were they cleanshaven, or — —”

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