The Greatest Thrillers of Edgar Wallace. Edgar Wallace

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СКАЧАТЬ Leon, don’t question me about the physiognomy of the man — my view was for photographic purposes — I wanted to remember him.

      “In that second I could see the detective’s anger, the thief’s defiance, and I knew that the man was saying that he could not recognise us.”

      “Ha!” It was Manfred’s sigh of relief that put a period to Poiccart’s speech.

      “But I wanted to make sure,” resumed the latter. “I walked back the way I had come. Suddenly I heard the hum of the car behind me, and it passed me with another passenger. I guessed that they were taking the man back to Scotland Yard.

      “I was content to walk back; I was curious to know what the police intended doing with their new recruit. Taking up a station that gave me a view of the entrance of the street, I waited. After a while the man came out alone. His step was light and buoyant. A glimpse I got of his face showed me a strange blending of bewilderment and gratification. He turned on to the Embankment, and I followed close behind.”

      “There was a danger that he was being shadowed by the police, too,” said Gonsalez.

      “Of that I was well satisfied,” Poiccart rejoined. “I took a very careful survey before I acted. Apparently the police were content to let him roam free. When he was abreast of the Temple steps he stopped and looked undecidedly left and right, as though he were not quite certain as to what he should do next. At that moment I came abreast of him, passed him, and then turned back, fumbling in my pockets.

      “‘Can you oblige me with a match?’” I asked.

      “He was most affable; produced a box of matches and invited me to help myself.

      “I took a match, struck it, and lit my cigar, holding the match so that he could see my face.”

      “That was wise,” said Manfred gravely.

      “It showed his face too, and out of the corner of my eye I watched him searching every feature. But there was no sign of recognition and I began a conversation. We lingered where we had met for a while and then by mutual consent we walked in the direction of Blackfriars, crossed the bridge, chatting on inconsequent subjects, the poor, the weather, the newspapers. On the other side of the bridge is a coffee-stall. I determined to make my next move. I invited him to take a cup of coffee, and when the cups were placed before us, I put down a sovereign. The stall-keeper shook his head, said he could not change it. ‘Hasn’t your friend any small change?’ he asked.

      “It was here that the vanity of the little thief told me what I wanted to know. He drew from his pocket, with a nonchalant air — a sovereign. ‘This is all that I have got,’ he drawled. I found some coppers — I had to think quickly. He had told the police something, something worth paying for — what was it? It could not have been a description of ourselves, for if he had recognised us then, he would have known me when I struck the match and when I stood there, as I did, in the full glare of the light of the coffee-stall. And then a cold fear came to me. Perhaps he had recognised me, and with a thief’s cunning was holding me in conversation until he could get assistance to take me.”

      Poiccart paused for a moment, and drew a small phial from his pocket; this he placed carefully on the table.

      “He was as near to death then as ever he has been in his life,” he said quietly, “but somehow the suspicion wore away. In our walk we had passed three policemen — there was an opportunity if he had wanted it.

      “He drank his coffee and said, ‘I must be going home.’

      “‘Indeed!’ I said. ‘I suppose I really ought to go home too — I have a lot of work to do tomorrow.’ He leered at me. ‘So have I,’ he said with a grin, ‘but whether I can do it or not I don’t know.’

      “We had left the coffee-stall, and now stopped beneath a lamp that stood at the corner of the street.

      “I knew that I had only a few seconds to secure the information I wanted — so I played bold and led directly to the subject. ‘What of these Four Just Men?’ I asked, just as he was about to slouch away. He turned back instantly. ‘What about them?’ he asked quickly. I led him on from that by gentle stages to the identity of the Four. He was eager to talk about them, anxious to know what I thought, but most concerned of all about the reward. He was engrossed in the subject, and then suddenly he leant forward, and, tapping me on the chest, with a grimy forefinger, he commenced to state a hypothetical case.”

      Poiccart stopped to laugh — his laugh ended in a sleepy yawn.

      “You know the sort of questions,” said he, “and you know how very naive the illiterate are when they are seeking to disguise their identities by elaborate hypotheses. Well, that is the story. He — Marks is his name — thinks he may be able to recognise one of us by some extraordinary trick of memory. To enable him to do this, he has been granted freedom — tomorrow he would search London, he said.”

      “A full day’s work,” laughed Manfred.

      “Indeed,” agreed Poiccart soberly, “but hear the sequel. We parted, and I walked westward perfectly satisfied of our security. I made for Covent Garden Market, because this is one of the places in London where a man may be seen at four o’clock in the morning without exciting suspicion.

      “I had strolled through the market, idly watching the busy scene, when, for some cause that I cannot explain, I turned suddenly on my heel and came face to face with Marks! He grinned sheepishly, and recognised me with a nod of his head.

      “He did not wait for me to ask him his business, but started in to explain his presence.

      “I accepted his explanation easily, and for the second time that night invited him to coffee. He hesitated at first, then accepted. When the coffee was brought, he pulled it to him as far from my reach as possible, and then I knew that Mr Marks had placed me at fault, that I had underrated his intelligence, that all the time he had been unburdening himself he had recognised me. He had put me off my guard.”

      “But why —— ?” began Manfred.

      “That is what I thought,” the other answered. “Why did he not have me arrested?” He turned to Leon, who had been a silent listener. “Tell us, Leon, why?”

      “The explanation is simple,” said Gonsalez quietly: “why did not Thery betray us? — cupidity, the second most potent force of civilisation. He has some doubt of the reward. He may fear the honesty of the police — most criminals do so; he may want witnesses.” Leon walked to the wall, where his coat hung. He buttoned it thoughtfully, ran his hand over his smooth chin, then pocketed the little phial that stood on the table.

      “You have slipped him, I suppose?” he asked.

      Poiccart nodded.

      “He lives —— ?”

      “At 700 Red Cross Street, in the Borough — it is a common lodging-house.”

      Leon took a pencil from the table and rapidly sketched a head upon the edge of a newspaper.

      “Like this?” he asked.

      Poiccart examined the portrait.

      “Yes,” he said in surprise; “have you seen him?”

      “No,” СКАЧАТЬ