The Greatest Thrillers of Edgar Wallace. Edgar Wallace

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СКАЧАТЬ 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”; and the other young man obeyed.

      “And now,” said Mr. Howard, still holding Billy’s arm affectionately, “tell me how the world has been using you.”

      “Look ‘ere, Mr. Howard,” said Billy earnestly, “what’s the 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 СКАЧАТЬ