Sanderson of the Yard
Date: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00
Description: Why British author John Victor Turner (1900-1945) chose the name of the celebrated Scottish philosopher as his nom de plume is hard to say. As an author he produced a number of novels and novellas, several of them featuring Sanderson of the Yard. All three are full of vigorous action. This book collects three of them from the Australian weekly newspaper The Weekly Times (Melbourne). They were all published previously in "The Thriller" magazine. 1: Secret of the Strong Room 2: Call in the Yard 3: The Murder Trap The three together make about 70,000 words.

SANDERSON OF

SCOTLAND YARD

David Hume

(John Victor Turner, 1900-1945)

Three Sanderson of

Scotland Yard novellas

2020

Contents

1: Secret of the Strong Room

2: Call in the Yard

3: The Murder Trap

___________________

1: Secret of the Strong Room

The Thriller Dec 1 1934

Weekly Times (Melbourne) 16 May 1936

1: Sudden Death

IT was seven o'clock in the evening, and a grey blanket of mist was smothering London, when a two-seater roadster came slowly round the corner into Gray's Inn. and pulled to a stop.

A tall, slim man, swathed in a black evening coat, slid from the driving-seat and strained his sight in an effort to view the gloomy buildings facing him. Finally, he strode up the well-worn steps leading to a ramshackle building, slipped a key from his pocket and opened the front door. For a moment he stood in the hall, but there was nothing irresolute in the man's attitude. Calmly and deliberately he replaced the key in his pocket, pulled a small mask of black crepe from the breast pocket of his overcoat, took off his hat while he affixed the elastic band round his head, replaced his hat and produced a torch. The beam of light flashed along a gloomy corridor to illuminate the foot of a staircase. The visitor walked forward silently, his footsteps deadened by rubber soles and heels. On the first landing he stopped, turned out his light and walked towards the end of the passage, where a dim film of illumination showed under the bottom of an ill-fitting door. Without hesitation, the man strode for ward and flung it back. Seated behind a desk at the far side of a small office was a stout, middle-aged man, attired in the regulation clothes of the legal profession— black coat and vest and striped trousers.

"I'm rather an unexpected caller, Curtis," said the man in the mask. His tone was metallic and dominating.

Curtis slumped back in his swivel chair, his eyes dilated, and the redness seeped from his lower lip as the teeth fastened on it in a nervous clench.

"Good evening, Number One," he said falteringly.

"Maybe it isn't such a good evening as you imagine it is, Curtis. I suppose you know why I've come?"

"Have you got some work for me to do?"

The visitor laughed ominously, and seated himself on the edge of the desk. His right hand was embedded in his overcoat pocket.

"I've certainly got some work for you to do," replied the man called Number One. "but this time you're not acting as my solicitor."

"No?" Curtis seemed to be recovering from the shock of the man's arrival. "I certainly won't do any work for you other than legal work."

"People don't talk to me about what they are going to do or what they are not going to do, and you should know that, Curtis. People do what I tell them to do, and if they get absent-minded about their instructions they're on a hot spot."

The solicitor smiled a little tremulously.

"It's no good trying to frighten me. Number One," he said. "Maybe it pleases you to scare some of the other men who work for you, but just because you are Number One, you're not going to give me a fit of the shivers."

The visitor bent forward and tapped on the desk with his left fist. Curtis looked up to find dark brown eyes peering at him through the slits in the mask.

"I'm going to talk to you for the good of your health." said Number One. "You're only trying to stand up to me because you think you've got a drop on me; you imagine you've got me just where you want me. That's exactly why I came to see you tonight, Curtis."

"I don't follow what you're getting at."

"You don't, eh? I employed you. Curtis, be cause I thought you'd got brains. This is one of the evenings when you'll have to use all the head-piece that Providence provided you with. You know darn well why I've come here, and you know me well enough to know that men who stand in my way take an excursion trip to the cemetery."

"I still don't know what you're talking about," remarked Curtis. "Why don't you explain the position?"

"I will," snapped Number One, slipping off the desk and standing erect. "Two weeks ago I handed over some documents to one of my men. He was told to burn them. This afternoon I met that mail. I had my doubts about him, Curtis. Those documents are very dangerous. Can you imagine what happened to that man?"

The solicitor grew pallid, and drummed nervously on the desk with his fingers.

"I haven't the slightest idea," he said.

"Then I'll tell you. I gave him the works for a couple of hours. And if I start to work on a man it's no picnic for him They either come through or go out. The man I amused myself with this afternoon did both. But he came through before he went out. Now do you know what I mean?"

The last question shot from the man's mouth was loaded with venom. Curtis squirmed uneasily in his seat. There was silence in the room— a menacing silence that seemed to speak of imminent danger.

"I'm beginning to know what you're talking about." said Curtis quietly.

"I'm not going to talk much longer about anything," snarled Number One. "You persuaded that man, Curtis, to hand those documents over to you. I suppose you thought they'd give you a good handle so that you could pull the 'black' on me?"

"You think I meant to blackmail you?" asked Curtis.

"You've been mixed up in crime so long that you can't kid me you don't know a criminal term when you hear it. Curtis give me back those papers immediately."

Curtis turned and pointed to the heavy safe set into the wall in a corner of the office.

"They're in there," he said, "and I haven't got the key, and can't open the door. You'll have to come for them some other time."

"By which time," snapped the visitor, "you won't be occupying this office, and the papers will have gone. That's a clumsy stroke to try and pull on a man like me. Open that safe and get those papers out. I'm in a hurry!"

"But I can't," insisted the lawyer.

"I've got something here that might be able to persuade you." Number One took his hand from his pocket, and the solicitor's eyes bulged as he stared down the black mouth of a revolver. He shivered as he saw the cylinder attached to the gun. Curtis, as a lawyer, possessed some curious knowledge, and among that store of knowledge was the ability to know a silencer when he saw one.

"You won't gain anything by shooting at me," he muttered. "The documents will still be safe when you've finished."

"Curtis, I started off as a small-time crook. In eight years I've travelled from the bottom to the top of the ladder. I got there by doing what I wanted, when I wanted to, and blotting out anyone who got in my way. And now you're telling me that I can't have those documents when I want them, and you're trying to get in my way by stealing them from me? The gates of eternity are open wide, and it looks to me as though you'll be the next person to pass through them."

"But you can have them back in the morning," protested Curtis.

"I'm having them back tonight," announced Number One emphatically.

"Well, listen to me just for a minute―"

"I'm not listening to you for one second. You got those papers so that you could black mail me. I've blackmailed so many people that I know that game from beginning to end. Here's my last remark to you. I'm going to count five, and if at the end of that count you haven't started to open that safe I'm going to pull this trigger, and it will be lights out for Mr Curtis, of Gray's Inn."

Curtis raised a hand and eased his collar away from a perspiring neck. The eyes behind the mask seemed to grow more vicious in expression, and dark in colour. Someone told Curtis once that you can tell a killer by his eyes. Now he knew that that was true. There was death in the man's brain, and the eyes were carrying the telegraphed message.

"One!" snapped the visitor.

"But just a moment―"

"Two!" Curtis stared at the steady hand and the unwavering gun barrel.

"Three!―"

"What I'm trying to tell you, Number One, is this—"

"Four!"

"Curse you!" shouted Curtis, pulling himself to his feet "You've got to listen to me!"

"Five!" said Number One, and as he spoke the index finger of his right hand flexed back.

There was a dull plop as the silencer deadened the sound of the explosion. The bulky figure of Curtis slumped back heavily in his chair, a bullet through his heart. Number One glanced at the corpse dispassionately, turned the barrel of the gun towards his mouth and blew delicately down the aperture to remove the fumes of the explosion. Then he walked over to the safe and examined the locks. Leisurely he strolled back to the desk and rolled Curtis a little to one side, since the man's position was interfering with the telephone cord. Then he called the exchange and asked for a Kilburn number. The call came through almost immediately.

"Is that you, Sadie?" he asked, and received a reply in the affirmative. Number One laid his gun down on the desk and spoke softly into the instrument. 'I've got a job for you and Andy. Meet Andy at the corner of the Strand and Chancery Lane at midnight tonight. He'll have all the instructions with him. Good-night, my child!"

He flicked down the receiver clip and gave a Hampstead number to the operator. This time the conversation was more prolonged.

"Is that you, Andy?"

"Yes. that's right. I know who you are. Carry on!"

"Listen carefully," said Number One. "Your girl friend wants to see you at midnight at the corner of Chancery Lane and the Strand. She wants to accompany you to see Peter. You follow me?"

"I certainly do. Where do we meet him?"

"At 45A Gray's Inn. You'll find him in the office of Robert W. Curtis, on the first floor. He'll leave the front door open for you. He only wants to hand over to you a bundle of documents in a large blue envelope: The outside of the envelope is marked 'Private and Confidential.' Don't open the envelope. I'll be sending round to your place for it in the morning. Is everything all clear?"

"Everything's perfectly okay. Is it a job for the girl friend, or for me?"

"For both of you. Good-night."

Number One replaced the receiver and sighed almost as though bored. Then he strolled over to the large cupboard standing in the corner of the room, swung back the doors and looked at the document cases in side. After examining them he turned to gaze at the corpse. For the next five minutes he was busy. But he was certainly following no usual occupation. When he left the office the document cases were piled on the floor in a corner, and the body of Robert W. Curtis, solicitor, was propped up inside the cupboard.

2: Midnight Episode

THE girl, crouching before the safe, suddenly stood erect, stretched her arms and yawned. The man by her side smiled and shrugged his shoulders.

"M.V.H.L.T.2.2.2. That." said Sadie, "should swing back the door of this safe."

Andy, the peterman, looked at her astonished. It didn't seem possible that a girl could work out the combination of a multiple safe so quickly that within an hour she could give the letters and numerals. For the hundredth time he turned to admire the slender build, the hazel eyes, the chestnut-coloured hair running in ringlets down to her shoulders. the small, close-lipped, determined mouth, and the long, tapering fingers, before he could attempt any comment.

"Sadie," he said, "you look great to me. What do you say about getting spliced?"

"Just," replied the girl, "that you're wily a good peterman to me. I work combinations and break safes for a living. And men mean nothing to me in my small life. Maybe one day I'll decide that I want to get married. When I do, I'm going to marry a man who's straight, because the man who's crooked as you are, Andy, and the girl who's crooked— as I am— just don't mix.

"I want to make some- money, so much money that I've got nothing to worry about for the rest of my life, and then I'm going to get out of this crooked game for ever, call it a day, and be the wife of some decent, clean-living man who never looked up the dictionary to find out what the word crooked means. You're a nice lad, Andy, but you're as crooked as a corkscrew. Open the peter."

Andy pushed his eyeshade farther towards his hair and took a deep breath. He was young, pale-faced, dark-haired, and seemed delicate. But within his slender frame and covering his ten stone was a power of purposefulness and a considerable strength. He admired Sadie as a girl who could break the combination of a safe faster than any person he had met before— and he had met some safe-breakers. Sadie admired him because he had a nerve so elastic in its dimensions that nothing could shake it.

"Has it occurred to you." asked Andy, "that one day the police are going to drop on us, and then it's the spike for us both?"

"Before the police drop on me," said the girl, slipping the elastic gloves from her hands, "I'll be a respectable married woman, with a horde of children around me, and I'll be so well known as a respectable woman that the police won't come near me."

"I've never been to gaol, but you know, Sadie, you're getting yourself all wrong. You're letting sentiment interfere with business. I knew a man once who had day-dreams, and his day-dreams led him to a stretch on Dart moor that kept him out of London for seven years. Don't go on day-dreaming. Sadie, until you find yourself walking into Holloway for a stretch you'll never forget."

The girl slipped on a short coat, turned to have a final look at the safe, and then moved towards the staircase.

"Andy," she said, "as a safe-breaker you're pretty good. As a man, maybe there's a lot that one could admire in you. As an associate in a crooked game you're a complete partner. But above the neck you've got an idea for nothing but crime, and it seems to me that very soon we'll be parting company."

Andy looked dismal for a moment, and then raised his shoulders with a shrug.

"The difference between you, Sadie, and myself seems to be this— you're only working to provide a home you can get married into one day; I'm working because I like the job."

"If your idea of a permanent job is breaking safes you're not going to have a very happy life; and anyone who's mixed up with you is likely to do seven years in the country that they won't forget I came into this game, Andy, because it seemed to me the fastest way to make money. I'm going out of this game, because that's the best way of keeping out of gaol."

"Romance doesn't seem to mix with the job we're on now," commented the man. "Now that I come to think of it, it doesn't seem right to propose marriage to a woman when both of you are working hard on the door of some one's safe."

"You're right." agreed the girl. "Number One said that he'd open the place for us to come into. He did that. He left me to find out the combination of the safe. I did that. You were left with the job of collecting the documents from the safe. You've still got to do that. I'm going home now. You can finish your end of the work in five minutes. Don't talk to me again about crime, Andy. After one more job I've finished with crime. It's me for a quiet life. I wanted money. I've made the money. Now I'm going to be an honest woman!"

Andy walked over to the steel wall cloaking the door of the safe, took a combination in one hand and a punctuation combination in the other hand and commenced to work while Sadie retired to the back of the room and slipped into a leather coat.

By the time she had finished dressing the front wall of the safe swung back, and within another min ute the door of the safe was open. Andy turned round with a triumphant smile on his face, rubbed his hands together gleefully, and said; "You're a bright girl. How you work out this combination by just listening to the fall of those tumblers, I don't know."

Sadie smiled at him sarcastically and then commented: "One day, Andy, if you stay with this business long enough, you'll know the difference between an artist and a criminal."

"I'm beginning to think, Sadie, that you'll be out of it in time to realise the difference between being a married woman living in a quiet home, and being a criminal spending your days, and maybe pacing your hours, sighing through years, in penal servitude."

Andy commenced to search among the piled stacks of documents and envelopes. For some time Sadie watched him. noted the frowns that rose across his forehead, the puzzled twist on his lips. Minutes passed by.

"Get a move on!" urged the girl. "If you don't grab those documents soon you'll be here when the cleaners arrive." Her companion turned seriously. His face had paled. "There's something phoney about this lay out. kid," he said, "We've been sent here to collect something that isn't in the safe!"

"What?" Sadie was incredulous.

"I'm telling you, that envelope isn't here."

"What?"

"Search me! Either Number One has double-crossed us or someone has pulled a fast one on him. I can smell trouble— any amount of it. What'll we do?"

"Get out while we've got a chance."

"And suppose Number One thinks we've double-crossed him. Sadie. That'd put us in a queer street, kid?"

"It isn't the sort of thing I think about or talk about."

"Sammy Gleitz came to the conclusion that he was being bilked, or crossed by the boss," said Andy. "He broke the safe at Webley's and walked out with the money. He didn't walk out of the Thames. He was carried out. Sammy was dead. You can try and sell a pup to Number One once— you never get a second chance. Don't talk to me about any one in our crowd pulling anything phoney. Well, it's no good arguing about these things, Sadie. We were told by Number One that we'd find that envelope in this safe. Something has gone wrong, badly wrong, but I don't see that we can be blamed. I'll lock the case, and then we'll drift."

"This is just too bad," said someone standing behind both of them.

3: A Mysterious Visitor

SADIE and Andy wheeled round. A man stood in the doorway. In his right hand was an automatic pointing towards Andy's stomach. In his left was another gun, pointing towards Sadie's heart. The stranger was young— not more than thirty. Sadie and Andy scrutinised him carefully. They saw the deep-set blue eyes, the sharply defined nose, the small mouth, the resolute jaw, the powerful neck, the shoulders, widespread and strong, leading down in a tapering line over the powerfully built body to slim hips and-slim flanks. But above all, these, they noticed the steadiness with which his guns were held.  Sadie, being a woman, took another look. She noticed the angle of the expensive hat, pulled down over his eyes, the line of his coat, and the air of nonchalance which combined with the man's attitude of intense determination.

"This is just too bad," he repeated.

"It certainly is," said Andy, whose unruffled life had never been crossed by a line of fear. "Maybe you'll put those fireworks out of your hands and tell me who you are and what you've come for."

The stranger smiled, showing a set of teeth both white and regular.

"My name," he said, "doesn't really matter. I know that you're Andy, and that your girl friend is Sadie. I know that you're employed by Number One. I know the arrangements by which you were sent here tonight to crack this crib. It's my job to crease Number One, and in the process of doing that I don't want to crease you two as well. Number One has got to go. I'm the man who'll see that he does go. You two are kids. I don't want to discover that as my rolling machine comes down the road of crime you're squelched under it. You, Sadie, have got the makings of a decent woman. Beat it, and be a decent woman.

"You, Andy, are a boy, who's been led adrift by the thought of big money and no work. Get out of here and never work for Number One again. I'm being kind to you. The next time I see either of you working for Number One I won't be so generous."

Andy stared at the man and moved towards him menacingly.

"Use your head, if you've got one," said the stranger. "You're so used to walking into other people's houses that you haven't got brains enough to see death when you're walking into it. This time, Andy, the grave is waiting for you twice, and both of the occasions are waiting for you in my left hand and in my right."

"Trying to scare me?" asked Andy.

"I wouldn't try to scare you. Bluff is a word that I never listed in my dictionary. You're in love with Sadie. Being a woman, she's being awkward and pretending that she isn't in love with you. The sooner you two get out of here, forget Number One. and settle down to an ordinary life the healthier it mil be for both of you."

"Wait a minute," interrupted Sadie. "It's all very well for you to stand there and talk high and mighty, as though you're the beginning and the end of everything, but as far as we're concerned you might be a double-crasser who's drifted in here to queer our pitch after we've done the job."

The stranger smiled and then slipped the guns into the pockets of his overcoat. For a moment Sadie and Andy were so surprised that they made no movement. Before they could think of anything to say the stranger walked across the room with his hands embedded in his trouser pockets.

"Listen to me, Sadie," he said deliberately. "Tonight I'm giving you two the biggest break a pair of crooks ever had. The reason for that is this; I don't want either of you; you're both too small to interest me, and I'm trying to do the best I can for you. The man I want is the man who employs you, the man who's so afraid of letting his own name be known that he calls himself Number One. Now I'll tell you why I came here tonight, and then you'll realise that I don't want the dirty money or papers, or anything else you might have taken from this safe, and why I'm only trying to put both of you on the right way. Just listen to me for a moment."

The stranger paused dramatically. Sadie looked towards him with a new interest. Andy was bewildered, still trying to place the man, persistent in his attempts to follow what was happening, to appreciate the mentality, the cause, the reason for the stranger's arrival. For a short time the man stared at them from under the brim of his hat; then he said:

"I could hold both of you here while I phoned for the police. That would be the end of all your dreams, the end of all your castles in the air. If I were a good law-abiding citizen that's what I would do. I've caught you red-handed, but I'm giving you a bigger break than you'd ever get from your boss. In return for that I want two things from you.

"In the first place I want to know where Number One lives. Secondly, I want to know why he sent you to break this safe. I'm not asking for much."

"Where's all this leading to?" asked Andy "You may think that you're talking intelligently, but what you've been saying means nothing to me."

"I'll repeat, I'm just a nobody. I'm only the man who's going to lead Number One to the gallows."

"And supposing he takes you for a joy-ride to the mortuary?" asked Andy.

The stranger smiled tolerantly and buttoned his coat. He viewed Sadie almost sympathetically. "There's a race between us," he said simply. "If I lose that race there's a bullet waiting for me. If I win there's a hempen rope waiting for him. Are you going to tell me what I want to know?"

"Yes," blurted Sadie. "We were sent here to collect an envelope full of documents marked 'Private and Confidential,' and after all the trouble of opening the peter we find it's not here."

"Shut your mouth!" snapped Andy.

"And close yours," said the stranger evenly. There was a flare of action. Andy lashed out with a pile-driving right, and the stranger swerved away from the punch and loosed a left hook that soared in an arc to land on Andy's jaw. The impact of the blow raised him off his feet, and he hurtled across the room, crashing into the cupboard door in the corner. Even as the stranger moved forward the door of the cupboard swung open and the body of Robert W. Curtis toppled out, pitching forward into the room upon the unconscious Andy. Sadie screamed and fainted. The stranger blanched and stared at the three bodies as though seized with a stroke.

4: Shocks For Everyone

THE stranger had not moved from his tense position in the centre of the office when Sadie rolled over on the floor and recovered consciousness with a sigh and a groan. For a brief interval she stared unbelievingly at the figure of the corpse sprawled over Andy's body. Then, as though for the first time, she noticed the presence of the stranger.

"What the heck's happened?" she asked. "Who killed that man? Who is he?"

"From the name on the office door," replied the stranger steadily, "I'd say it was Robert W. Curtis, solicitor. But if you want the answer to the other question you'd better ask your boss. Didn't either you or Andy know anything about this body when you came in here"

"Good heavens, no! We don't mind breaking safes; but we do object to working at the side of a stiff. Let's lift him off Andy."

The girl rose unsteadily to her feet, and then turned suddenly to regard the stranger with a suspicious store. By now her nerves were recovering, and her brain was beginning to function once more.

"Wait one moment," she said. "You re so fond of asking questions that it's time some one tried you with a few. What do you know about the body in the cupboard?"

"Nothing at all, and if I did Td say nothing. Compared with me, an oyster is talkative.'

"They say," sneered the girl, as she walked over to Andy, "that canaries some times ring. You've got a lot of explaining to do. Give me a hand with this man."

"You stand bade, Sadie, and use your head. Doesn't seem to have occurred to you that handling a murdered man before the police arrive on the scene is apt to leave traces behind. Wait until Andy comes round, and then he can pull himself from under the corpse. While you're waiting, fasten the door of that safe."

Before Sadie had locked the safe door Andy blinked his eyes and tried to turn over on the ground. A puzzled expression flitted over his face as he felt the burden pressing on his back. Again he wriggled, and then he looked up at the stranger.

"All right, Andy," said the man soothingly. "Don't get excited. You're lying under a corpse. When I hit you under the jaw I didn't know that you could produce a corpse from a cupboard as easily as a conjurer produces a rabbit from a hat,"

"What the deuce are you talking about?"

"That's right," said Sadie, turning away from the safe to stare at Andy. "The man isn't pulling my leg. When you hit that door a corpse fell out on top of you. Get up."

There was no need to offer further advice. Andy shot to his feet with startling speed, and immediately whipped round to look on the floor behind him.

"Am I seeing right?" he asked.

"You don't suppose the man on the floor is doing it for a joke?" asked the stranger. "Look here, children, in three minutes' time I'm going to ring up the police and tell them that I've found a body here. If I thought that either of you had anything to do with this murder I'd hold you until the police arrived. But I'm quite certain that neither of you knows the first thing about it. That's why I'm letting you make a getaway. In return for that I'll expect you to do me a good turn in the near future. Now get out of here before I change my mind."

Andy turned round wonderingly.

"What exactly is your game?" he asked.

"I've told you half a dozen times already."

"Are you a bogey?" inquired Sadie.

"If by bogey you mean detective," replied the man, "you've got another guess coming to you. Both you kids are risking you necks by staying here, and my patience is ebbing away very quickly. Collect any gear you've got with you, make sure you've left no fingerprints on the door of that safe, and get back to your homes as fast as you can travel."

"We certainly will," said Sadie. She paused for a moment before adding: "How are you going to break out of this lot? If you stay here after we've gone and telephone the police, it looks as though you'll be taking an unpleasant rap."

"Sadie, leave me to look after myself, and don't look a gift horse in the mouth by asking me questions when you ought to be going like smoke for your own home. Clear out!"

Andy took the girl by the arm, and, with out further comment, they commenced to descend the stairs. Immediately they had left the office the stranger dived towards Curtis's desk and his fingers worked with nimble speed through letters, memoranda and documents in half a dozen drawers. Five minutes later he slipped three envelopes into his pocket and walked round the desk to pick up the telephone.

"Whitehall 1212," he called.

A minute later Scotland Yard received an anonymous call telling them that a search of the first floor premises at 45a Gray's Inn, would provide them with a ready-made murder.

Almost before the officer on duty at the desk had time to replace the receiver the stranger was speeding westward in a small sports car. His exit from the scene of the crime was arranged with greater ease and less cause for apprehension than attended the exit of Andy and Sadie.

When they reached the pavement a tall, broad-shouldered man slipped from the doorway of the next house and strolled over to them.

"Hallo, friends," he said.

"I've been waiting for you for an hour. Where's the envelope?"

"Envelope? What envelope? I don't know what you re talking about"

"You came in here," said the man, "to collect an envelope from the safe. Your girl friend came with you to lend a helping hand. I want to know where the envelope is before I take both of you to the police station."

"And who are you?" asked Andy.

"Just Detective-Sergeant Wallis, that's all."

"I've only ambled out with the girl friend for a walk."

"He's quite right," added the girl. "I'm fond of night air."

"Your name," said the officer, glaring at her, "is Sadie Burns, and we've watched you for the last six months. Your boy friend is Andy Wilson, and we've been watching him for two years longer than we ought to have done. There's a stretch waiting for both of you."

"Are you trying to frame me?" asked Andy.

"I'm not going to waste my time," said the man, yawning. "I'm just going to collect a cab, see you to Cannon Row Police Station, and then have some sleep while you bed down in the cells."

"You've got this all wrong," commented Andy. "I told you that I brought my girl friend out for a walk round the block. You'll soon find that I've got no envelope. Someone has been pulling your leg, and if you take us to Cannon Row Police Station you'll make Scotland Yard look a bigger fool than it is now, and that's saying something."

Wallis stared at them impassively and waved his arm to flag a crawling taxi. As the cab was pulling to a standstill he slid a pair of handcuffs from his pocket, manacled Sadie and Andy, pushed them inside the taxi, and gave instructions to the driver. Then he hauled himself inside and sat down, his right arm encircling both his prisoners. Sadie laughed almost hysterically.

"Seems to me, Andy," she said, "that those people who go to the cinema and pay fifteen-pence for some excitement should have our job."

"Seems to me," replied Andy, "that I'm taking the cheapest cab ride I've ever had to the cheapest holiday in the country that any man can ever have."

"Just as well to be philosophic about it," interrupted Wallis. "You two are walking into something warmer than either of you have guessed."

It was then that Andy jerked upright in the car and stared through the window over the head of the driver. He whipped round angrily towards the man at his side.

"What game are you trying to pull on us?" he asked. "This cab isn't going to Cannon Row Police Station."

"You're right," replied Wallis casually. "Of course we're not going to Cannon Row Police Station. You must be a complete sucker to think that I'm a split."

"If you're not a split," said Sadie heatedly, "who the heck are you?"

"Be a perfect little lady," sneered the man. "Women who use bad language lose their femininity. And when a woman loses her femininity she's got nothing left."

"I want to know where we're going," said Andy aggressively. "If you don't tell me I'll put my fist through this window and ask the driver where he's taking us to."

"The driver," remarked the other man, "is a member of the firm."

"What firm?" inquired Andy.

"The same firm that employs you."

"Sounds to me as though I m going to be put on the spot," said Andy.

"Sounds to me, seems to me, appears certain to me, that you are on the spot,"

"Well, what's all this story about you being Detective-Sergeant Wallis?" asked Andy.

"One name'll do just as well as another while you're trying to think of something to say," remarked the man. The car braked to a standstill, and Sadie stared round, trying to place the district in which she had arrived. She didn't know it.

"This is where you get out," said the man. Facing you, you'll see a flight of steps. Get to the top of those steps and I'll see to the rest. If you try any funny business we'll, be wanting two graves, and you two will fill them. Start moving."

Andy bunched his shoulders disconsolately and looked towards Sadie. She ignored the glance, and continued to stare at the steps leading to the door opposite her.

"Is this a bumping-off job?" she asked.

"I don't know, said the man.

"My only job was to see that you arrived here, and you're certainly here now. Get but of this cab."

Andy and Sadie squeezed their way through the door and alighted on the pavement. Their gaoler held both of them by the arm, and bustled up the steps towards the door. For a moment he loosed Sadie while he rang the bell. Almost immediately the front door opened and a smug, unctuous butler hooked his head through me opening.

"I'm Number Seven," said the man, clutching Sadie and Andy.

"I'm Number Eleven," said the butler.

"In that case seven and eleven makes eighteen," remarked the other man.

"Come inside," said the butler, swinging back the door and bowing satirically towards Sadie and Andy as they were hustled into the hall. The man pushed both of them forward, and they arrived in a room adjoining the hall.

"Sit down," said the butler, "and make yourselves comfortable. I don't expect you'll feel comfortable for very long."

As he finished speaking the door behind him swung forward and a man entered the room. He wore a dress suit and cape, but there were no facial characteristics discernible; his features were swathed under the cover of a black crepe mask. Sadie looked at him, shivered, and clung closer to Andy.

"Good evening," remarked the man. "You've seen me before. You ought to remember me. I'm going to teach you that people who work for me learn to walk three ways. The right way, half-way, or the wrong way. If they walk the wrong way, as you two have, I just exterminate them."

"Who are you?" asked Andy.

"You ought to know me by now," replied the man. "I am Number One!"

He stepped forward and unlocked the handcuffs.

"Then perhaps you'll tell me," said Andy, "whether you knew that there was a corpse in the cupboard when you sent us to that joint tonight?"

"I'm telling you nothing, but I'm wanting to know something. Where's that envelope I sent you for?"

"We haven't got it," replied Andy. "We opened the safe, and it wasn't there. What kind of game, are you playing? Anyone would think to hear you speak that we'd been pulling a double-cross on you. We've played the game, so what's causing all the trouble?"

"Where is that envelope? I want the truth , not fairy stories."

5: Number One is Worried

SADIE flinched and drew back a pace. The colour was seeping from under the cosmetics on her face. Andy clenched his fists tightly and stared at Number One aggressively.

"Just listen to me," he said to Number One. "Every break that can run against two folks on the crook ran against Sadie and me tonight I know you're the big shot in this school, but you're not the only one who's entitled to a few explanations We'd like you to answer a few questions."

"I want that envelope," insisted Number One menacingly.

"I'm not a magician," replied Andy, "and I can't produce what I haven't got We opened that safe and found that your envelope wasn't there. That was only the start of the trouble. Just when Sadie and myself decided to stage a fade-out some man comes drifting into the office with guns in his hands, and starts to talk to us. Mostly he talked about you. That was bad enough. But something worse came afterwards. I had a slight argument with the man. He socked me under the jaw and hit me for six against a cupboard in the corner of the office. The cupboard door flew open and a corpse did a nosedive on top of me. Just work that one out. Who told the first man that we were breaking that peter open? Who put the stiff in the cupboard? And who pulled your leg when they told you that the envelope was in that, safe? Yes, Number One, I think we have some right to be inquisitive."

For a moment even Number One seemed shaken, and it was some time before he spoke. When he did commence to speak his tone had altered. The metallic bite had vanished, and a note of concern and anxiety was discernible. Sadie and Andy speedily noticed the change.

"Look here," he said, "you two have got me guessing. I don't know whether you're trying to put a bluff across me or whether you're telling a straight story. Who was the man who broke into your party?"

"Might have been anybody from Julius Caesar down to Jack the Ripper," commented Andy. "Finding out the identity of that man is about as easy as finding out who you are. We know no more about him now than we did when he first blew into the office. You certainly ought to know him. He's only got one ambition in life, and that's to see you with a rope round your neck and nothing under your feet except air. He certainly intends leading you on a long, long walk."

"Why did he break into the party? What did he want? He must have come for something. Men don't drift round in the early hours of the morning, sticking safe-breakers up with a couple of gats, unless they're aiming to get something pretty important."

"All he wanted from us," said Andy, "was your address and the story of why we were opening the safe. We told him neither."

"You were wise. You say this man means to crease me out?"

"I do. And he looked to me like the sort of man who could do it."

"He's not the first who's tried to finish me. All the others who tried it managed to get to the cemetery, and I'm still alive. I don't suppose your friend will be any more successful."

"There's another little matter you haven't explained yet. Why did you send a man to wait outride those premises for us, to tell us he was Detective-Sergeant Wallis, of Scotland Yard, get us into a taxi by telling us we were under arrest, and then bring us along here?"

"I can soon tell you that I arranged that little scheme to make sure that you didn't pull a fast one on me by clearing off after you'd collected that envelope. That's why I sent Wallis to act as an escort."

"Begins to sound," remarked Andy casually, "as though the stuff in that envelope is pretty important."

Number One strode forward until he stood immediately before the two of them. Then he extended his arms, and gripped each by the shoulder.

"The stuff in that envelope is worth my life to me," he announced quietly, "and if I have to murder half the people in London before I can get it bade, then half the people in London have got to be murdered. I'm not going to talk any more to you now. Enough has happened tonight to give each of us a headache. I'll be wanting both of you soon on another job, and if you get away with what I want you to do Ill pay you enough to put you in easy street for the zest of your lives."

"That'd suit me," said Andy.

"And me," announced Sadie.

"All right then. Tonight at ten o'clock call on Pete Lees. You'll find him at 45A Oakley Street, Lambeth. I'll pass the instructions on to him, and he'll tell you what your job is. Tomorrow, Andy, you'll have to be at home at five o'clock in the afternoon. You, Sadie, will remain at home, and early in the evening Andy will come round to tell you what your job is."

Number One swung round on the balls of his feet, the door banged, and he had gone.

Sadie and Andy walked outside, waiting for some time on the pavement before they were able to hail a stray cab. Before Andy gave Sadie's address he scrutinised the driver, recalling that his last experience of drivers didn't teach him that they were always impersonal.

As the taxi drew away from the kerb a private car swung round a corner a hundred yards away and started to follow them. The driver was the man who had interrupted their safe-breaking expedition. Andy lowered the window and poked his head outside to shout to the driver:

"What street is that you picked me up in?"

"William Street; just off Stanhope Street," called the driver.

"Near Euston, isn't it?"

"Between Euston and Regent's Park," shouted the driver.

"Thank you."

Andy raised the window and sat back in his seat.

"You know, Sadie, that address is a new one on me. I'm beginning to think that our boss has got dives and hang-outs in every London suburb."

"I'm not worrying about that at the moment," replied the girl. "In the last four minutes we've taken half a dozen turns, and there's a car behind us that's followed us around each corner. You'd better watch your step, Andy. Looks to me as though there's some trouble coming up at the back."

The taxi sped along Cleveland Street, and again Andy lowered the window to give instructions to the driver.

"Turn sharp right into Foley Street, and pull into the kerb the second you get round the comer."

The driver waved his hand to show that the instructions had been noted, and a few seconds later the cab swung round the bend. The driver jammed on his brakes, but before the taxi had pulled to a standstill Andy was out, waiting on the pavement. He hadn't long to wait .before a two-seater sports car shot round the bend, and there was a scream of brakes as the driver narrowly missed the stationary taxi. With three long strides Andy covered the intervening space and jumped on the running-board of the car.

"What the heck do you―" He got no further.

The driver of the private car looked at him and smiled. "You've met me before," he said.

"I certainly have," said Andy, quietly menacing. "And it's going to he a very bad thing for you if I meet you again. Men who follow me follow trouble. I've had enough of you for one night. Clear off, and don't let me see you again."

"Not quite so fast my friend," remarked the other man, smiling. "Which job are you going to do next?"

"This is getting beyond a joke," spat out Andy. "If you want a smack under the jaw get out of that driving seat If you want to get home without having your face busted up, mind your own business, put your foot on the accelerator, and step out of my life."

The two men stared at each other. Andy was annoyed, very annoyed. But the stranger still preserved his smile, and from the light of amusement in his blue eyes it seemed impossible that he was being threatened. Sadie jumped down from the taxi and moved towards them. At the same moment a policeman walked round the corner, hesitated momentarily while he surveyed the party in front of him. Then he strolled over to them.

"Any trouble here?" he asked. Before Andy or the girl could frame a reply the driver of the private car answered the officer.

"No trouble at all," he said disarmingly. "Just met two friends of mine by accident, and we were having a talk. Sorry if I'm blocking up the traffic, officer. I'll move on."

As he released the brake, depressed the clutch and put the car into gear, he smiled at Sadie and Andy.

"Goodnight," he said. "And according to the arrangement I made before the officer arrived, I'll see both of you later again in the day."

"Thank you," said Andy. "And if you keep that promise I'll keep the promise I made to you. Goodnight."

The stranger waved a cheery hand to them as though delighted to have met them, and his car vanished down the road into the darkness. Sadie shrugged her shoulders helplessly and walked back to the taxi. A frown was across Andy's forehead. He was worried. Who was this man? And, for the matter of that, who was Number One?

"What a night!" he remarked to Sadie as the taxi started off down the street. "Looks, Sadie, as though we're walking into trouble whatever way we go."

"Trouble," said Sadie, "is my middle name. Let's forget it." Ahead of them the driver of the private car had swung back on his' tracks. The car was heading for William Street

6: The Mysterious House

THE man crossed Warren Street, turned into Stanhope Street, and then swung round to the left before pulling his car into the kerb. As he alighted he patted the side pocket of his coat, felt the outline of his gun, and strode down the pavement towards Albany Street with an air of confidence.

After walking thirty yards his pace slowed down and he began to examine the doors of the houses at his side. The hesitation didn't last for long. He turned the collar of his coat up around his throat, tugged at his hat so that the brim dipped down over his eyes, and then passed up the steps in front of him. On the door were both a knocker and a bell, and his right hand embedded in his pocket, fingers entwined round the butt of the gun, he shot out his left thumb and pressed the bell.

While he waited he turned to look both ways along the street with keen eyes; there was no one about. A little later he heard the echo of feet resounding in the hall. Then his ears picked up the crash of bolts as they were withdrawn, and a snap as the key was twirled bade in the lock.

The door opened two or three inches. The newcomer could not see the man who stood in the hall. Beyond the opening of the door the interior of the house was impenetrably dark.

"Who are you?" came a gruff voice. "What do you want?"

"My name doesn't matter," replied the newcomer softly. "I've come here to talk to a man. His name doesn't matter, either. I'll call him Number One. That should be enough for you."

"Never heard of anyone with that name," sneered the man abruptly, and he drew back a pace as he proceeded to slam the door. The effort was unsuccessful. The newcomer shot his foot between the door and the framework, pressed his shoulder forward, and the speed of the movement took the man in the hall so by surprise that he was unable to stop the door swinging back.

The stranger made one more lithe movement, and he was standing inside the hall.

"You can't do things like that," said the startled man.

"You'd be surprised what I can do."

The man was surprised, but he raised no further arguments. Something hard was pressing against his ribs under his heart, and he knew that he was facing an argument that makes opposition impossible. Only madmen continue to show fight when the death-dealing muzzle of a gun is buried against their ribs.

"My trigger finger is itching," said the stranger. "So don't try to pull any funny tricks. I want to talk to Number One. If I have to murder you in the process of finding him it'll be just too bad. I've got a silencer on this gun, so I'm not afraid of people hearing the slot. If you want to live, open your mouth and tell me where I can find your boss."

"You've got me right," replied the other man. "But I've got nothing to gain either way. If I tell you what I know my boss will murder me. If I don't tell you you'll shoot me. Seems to me I'd better keep dumb and see what happens."

Something happened with dazzling speed. But the man in the hall knew very little about it. The stranger's left arm soared upwards in an arc, and there was a dull crash as the weight of a knuckle-duster smashed into the point of his jaw. The man's legs folded beneath him, and the stranger gripped his coat to break the fall and deaden the sound as the body crashed towards the ground.

From the left-hand pocket of his coat he extracted a small torch. A circular piece of adhesive tape was fastened round the lens, and through a small hole in the centre of the tape the light shone with a beam as narrow as a pinprick. He looked around him. To his right two doorways led off the narrow hall. Facing him, a few yards farther down the passage, was a staircase and a narrow opening on the left of the flight of stairs obviously ran through to the domestic part of the house.

Before he moved he turned a stab of light on the face of the man lying at his feet and satisfied himself that there would be no danger from that source for some time.

His shoes, soled and heeled with crepe rubber, made little sound as he crossed to the first door and swung it open. One quick glance showed that the room, furnished as an ordinary drawing-room, was empty. He passed on to the dining-room, and again drew a blank. Standing in the hall again, he waited for some sound of movement inside the house. But all was quiet. Staring at the staircase, he began to wonder whether a visit to the first floor would involve too many dangerous chances.

With utter disregard of the danger, he started mounting the stairs with slow, stealthy steps. He had reached half-way up the flight when a sharp sound from the rear of the house, recognisable as the thud of a closing door sent him hurrying back into the hall and along the narrow passage. A closed door faced him, and he eased the hand gripping the gun so that he could hold the weapon and the torch together. With his left hand he seized the knob of the door and pressed forward. But the door was either locked or bolted from the other side. Hastily he ran towards the front door, swung it back and arrived outside in time to find two men walking up the entrance steps to meet him. The three men stood with the immobility of statues,

"Come inside," said the young man.

One of the men swung round as though to run.

"I've got a drop on you. If you try to run I'll plug you through the legs. Come forward and get into this nail."

The young man backed slowly into the house, the narrow pin of light flickered from one man to the other, the gun moving at a tangent, so that he covered both men alternately. When all three were inside the building he barked out an instruction:

"Turn that light switch on near the door. The man standing at the side of the button made no move. The man with the gun swung his light downwards so that the barrel could be seen pointing directly at the chest of the man he had spoken to.

"I'm going to count three, and if you haven't pulled down that light switch by the time I get to three I'll pull this trigger instead of counting four. One―"

The man, with a scurried movement of his hand, pressed down on the switch, and the hall was bathed in light.

"Now I can have a look at you," said the stranger. The man on his left was middle-aged, slim-built, sallow-complexioned. His eyes were dark, the mouth thin-lipped.

"Who are you?" asked the young man.

"My name," was the reply, "is Wade. What are you doing in this house? It doesn't belong to you."

"If it belongs to you," came the comment; "you're the man I've been looking for. I'll speak to you again in a moment. Now I want your friend to tell me who he is."

The other man, younger, more powerfully built, and carrying a livid scar across his cheek, replied:

"I'm Pete Lees. Who are you?"

"Don't ask questions out of turn. Who owns this house?"

Wade stared at the man lying on the floor beyond the stranger and waved a hand in his direction. "That man you've laid out is the owner of this house," he replied.

"Tell me another one," sneered the man with the gun. "That man lying on the floor couldn't pay the weekly rent for a quarter share of a Lambeth back room. Who owns this house?"

"I'll be honest with you," said Wade, attempting to impress the stranger with a sudden air of confidence. "The tenant here is a friend of mine named Quail, and I came along to see him on urgent business. Have you seen anything of him?"

"No," replied the stranger. "This man on the floor is the only human being I've seen since I arrived here."

"Then you're lucky," said Wade. "My friend isn't fond of people who break into his house, and he can be very nasty upon occasions."

"So can I. What is this man, Quail? And why does his friend— if you are a friend — come hiking round here before the dawn to interview him? Seems to me. Wade, that you've got quite a lot of explaining to do, and I'm waiting to hear your story."

"Seems to me you'll have to wait," said Wade. "You're very young, but you should know enough of the world to know that a man can't discuss with a stranger business matters between himself and his friend."

"When the friend owns the headquarters of a criminal gang, when he is an organiser of crime on a mass production scale, when he dashes out through the back of his house at this time in the morning, leaving a stranger in possession of the premises, and when a man tries to call himself a friend, and he's hanging round these premises, accompanied by a third-class crook, at five-thirty a.m., it seems to me that I'm well entitled to ask you what your business relationship is with the so-called Quail. I'm losing my patience. Tell me all you've got to say."

"I repeat," said Wade, "that the business bringing me here doesn't concern you, and I think you've got a nerve to ask me questions before you've told me why you broke into my friend's house and why you assaulted the man who's unconscious on the floor."

The young man steadied the gun, and his tone was bitter and dangerous when he said softly. "In two minutes' time I'm going to give you the works. Don't think I don't mean it. If you've any doubt―"

But the stranger did not complete his sentence. Something struck the back of his head with a tremendous impact. Belts of coloured lights flew like comets before his eyes, a blanket of darkness robbed him of consciousness, and he groaned once as his body hurtled to the ground

7: Framed

IT was nearly half-past six in the morning when the telephone bell rang on the desk at Bow Street Police Station. The sergeant sighed wearily and stretched for the instrument.

"Is that Bow Street Police Station?" came a man's voice over the wire.

"It is."

"I'm speaking from a call-box just off Long Acre. Send a couple of men along to Wilkins, the Covent Garden wholesalers. Tell them to go into the room at the back where the safe is kept, and they'll find something interesting."

"What's this?" shouted the sergeant abruptly. What are you talking about? Who are you?"

"I'm just a nobody,' said the man. "But a crook squealed on a mate of mine not long ago. My pal got five years. I said I'd get my own back. I have. The squeaker and I broke into Wilkins' an hour or two ago and emptied the safe. I slugged him, and he's lying unconscious in front of the safe. A you've got to do is to collect him and get the five years for him that he got for that friend of mine. That's all."

"No, no, no! Just hold on for one moment, will you?" "Die sergeant heard a callous laugh over the wire.

"I wasn't born yesterday," said his informant.  "Do you think I'm going to wait in this phone box while you send some one round to collect me?  I've given you the information. If you don't want to use it, that's your fault. Good-morning."

The sergeant heard the crash as the receiver was replaced, and he dashed through into the inner office to pass the story on to two C.I.D. men. Within half a minute the swing doors crashed open outside the police station and two detectives tore at break-neck speed along the pavement towards Wilkins' premises. The first man to reach the door pushed at it with his hand, and it swung back.

"This story's straight," he shouted to his colleague. "Some one has bust into these premises."

They dashed through the outer office of the firm, through the door at the far end of the desks and opened the door farthest away at the end of the corridor. The electric light in the room was turned on. The detectives stood at the top of a short flight of steps and stared into the room.

Before the door of the safe a man lay limp and unconscious. By the side of the man was an open suitcase containing bundles of treasury notes. The door of the safe was open. The detectives looked at each other, amazed. It was some time before either of them moved. The elder one strolled over to the recumbent figure, raised the head slightly and ran a hand around the man's skull.

Then he looked up at his colleague. "No joke about it," he said. "This man was coshed. He's got a lump on the back of his head as big as a duck egg. Grab one of the telephones in the outer office, ring up the sergeant, and tell him we want two policemen sent round here and a police car. This bloke isn't hurt badly enough to go to the hospital. We'll bring him round in the police station and get his story out of him."

Twenty minutes after the unconscious man had been taken to the station a fingerprint man and photographers were busy working in the room and Wilkins had arrived hurriedly to examine the contents of his safe. The merchant looked anxiously through the bundles of notes in the suitcase before he delivered his verdict. "As far as I can see," he said, "there's nothing missing."

"This is an extraordinary business all the way through," said one of the detectives. The telephone rang in the outer office and the officer hurried to take the call.

"Your man's just come round," he was told from Bow Street.

The detective gave hurried instructions to the other officer to see that nothing was disturbed until he returned and then he hastened back to his prisoner. The man sat on a bench in the charge-room, still dazed and looking round him in bewilderment.

The detective saw the deep-set blue eyes, the sharply-defined nose, the powerful body. Before speaking to him he walked to the outer office to see the sergeant.

"Been through his pockets?" he asked. "Yes. We found two revolvers, a torch and a knuckleduster. Looks as though he'll get ten years at the Old Bailey."

"I'll go and have a word with him," said the detective. "Seems to me he's going to walk into a list of charges as long as the Newgate Calendar."

Even during the three or four minutes the detective was absent from the charge-room the stranger's condition had improved appreciably. Some degree of healthy light was shining in his eyes, and the dazed appearance was fast fading. The detective sat down on the bench at his side.

"You'd better come clean," he said. "There's too much on you for you to get away with it, and telling funny stories to me wont do you any good. What's your statement?"

"Where am I?" asked the man. And who are you?"

"I'm Detective-Sergeant Cross, and you re in the charge-room at Bow Street Police Station."

"What for? I've done nothing. I don't remember anything that's happened for hours and hours and hours."

"That's your trouble," remarked Cross. "You're not here because you were laid out. You're here for what you did before you were laid out"

"But I was laid out in a house out Euston way."

"Like blazes you were!" said the sergeant. "You were laid out after you'd opened Wilkins' safe in Covent Garden, taken the money from it and just packed it up ready for a getaway."

There was a sudden change of expression on the man's face and his features hardened. Cross noticed the way in which his eyes narrowed and the pupils seemed to darken.

"You look to me like a dangerous man. Who laid you out?"

The man shook his head stubbornly. "It's no good, sergeant trying to talk me into making a statement I tell you that I was knocked unconscious in the Euston district, and I was carried from there down to Wilkins', so that I could be left in front of the safe and framed. Beyond that, I'm not going to say anything."

"If you're trying to tell me a story like that then you'll tell me in which house you were knocked unconscious and who put in the squeal."

"Nothing doing," said the young man decisively. "It's just a private affair between myself and another man. Charge me if you like. I plead not guilty and refuse to make a statement."

"You're putting your head into the noose by refusing to open your mouth. Be sensible."

"There's one way in which I'll talk, asserted the young man. "I'd like to have a conversation with either the Commissioner of Police or the Chief Constable at Scotland Yard. Can I talk to either of those men?"

"I'll say you can't," replied Cross, smiling. "I've always wanted to have a friendly talk with the King of Siam, and I'm no more likely to fulfil my ambition than you are."

"This is serious business, sergeant. Will you let me tell your divisional detective-sergeant in confidence why I want to talk to the biggest man I can find in Scotland Yard?"

"It just can't be done," said the sergeant.

"You're wrong this time, Cross," said a stockily-built man, who had just entered the charge-room.

"Look here, young man, I'm Divisional Detective-Inspector Webster, and if you have anything worth telling me I'm always ready to listen to it, so long as you're telling the truth and the matter is serious."

"I'll tell the truth, inspector, and the matter's so serious that it might land you on the biggest case you've ever had. I've got no grudge against this sergeant, but I'm not going to make any statement to you in front of a third party. Give me a private interview, and then you can decide for yourself what you're going to do."

"That's fair enough," said Webster.

"Stroll out of the room, Cross, and leave us to get on with the job. If I want you I'll call for you. Now fire away, young man, and tell me what's on your mind."

The young man sat back, his head bent forward, his chin resting on his hands, and as soon as the door closed behind Cross he commenced his statement.

8: Abduction!

A FEW hours after the conversation had taken place in the charge-room, the doors of Bow Street Police Court opened for the usual crime parade of the day. Summonses were granted. The usual host of petty crimes was dealt with and the ever-present habitués of the public gallery were leaving the premises when the magistrate's clerk called out: "Reginald Forbes."

The officer in charge of the dock called the same through the doorway leading beyond the court to the cells. A second later the prisoner walked up the steps to the dock and stood stiffly erect before the magistrate.

"Is your name Reginald Forbes?" asked file clerk.

"It is, sir," said the young man in the dock. Those remaining in the public gallery bent forward with increased interest when they heard the two charges read against the prisoner. They certainly hadn't expected, as a piece de resistance that morning, that they would see an armed safe-breaker in court.

"Do you plead guilty or not guilty?" asked the clerk.

"Not guilty," said the young man.

Immediately Divisional Detective Inspector Webster walked round the court to the witness-box, took the oath and observed the formality of informing the magistrate— who had met him two or three times a week for years— of his full name, his rank and the division to which he was attached.

"I took the prisoner into custody at six-thirty a.m. this morning, and propose to offer no further evidence today. I apply for a remand in custody for seven days in order that further inquiries can be made."

"Have you anything to say?" the magistrate asked the prisoner.

"Yes," said the young man. "I apply for bail."

The magistrate looked towards the man in the witness-box.

"That application is, of course, very strongly opposed by the police, apart from the seriousness of the offences charged against the prisoner, I must say that, at the moment, we are not certain that the prisoner is being charged under his real name."

"Remanded for seven days in custody," said the magistrate, and the prisoner was immediately led out of thee dock.

Instantly a man sitting in the back row of the public gallery hurried down the steps out of the court and walked to the telephone box on the corner. His telephone call was duplicated five times within the next twenty minutes, passing from one number to another, until finally Number One raised his receiver to discover that Reginald Forbes had been remanded in custody for a week.

In the corridor at the back of the court, Webster turned to the officers who had brought the prisoners to the court that morning in the Black Maria.

"You needn't bother about Forbes," he said. "I don't like a man as dangerous as he is to go back with the others. There's an inspector outside with a Flying Squad car, and we'll take him back."

DORA CURTIS was pacing to and fro across the lawn at the back of her father's Streatham house when the maid called to her.

"There's a gentleman waiting to see you, miss. He's come from your father."

Immediately Miss Curtis scurried into the house. For an endless number of hours she had waited for news, fearing news of a calamity at any moment, striving to obtain information from a police force which had suddenly turned dumb. In the hall she met a young, well-groomed man of pleasing appearance.

"Have you got some news for me?" she inquired anxiously.

"You must be getting very worried," said the visitor sympathetically.

"I'm more than worried," said the girl tearfully. "It's nearly twelve o'clock now, and I haven't heard or seen anything of him since early last night."

"Couldn't the police tell you anything?" asked the young man.

"I'm sure they could, but I can't get a word out of them. Who are you? Has anything dreadful happened?"

"Nothing very dreadful," said the man. "I know where your father is, and I've come to take you to him. My car's waiting outside, When you're ready we'll make a start."

"I'm ready now," announced Dora, snatching a hat from the hall-stand and hurrying towards the front door. For ten minutes as the car weaved its way through traffic the girl bombarded her companion with questions. His main reply was a disarming and sympathetic smile. At the end of a quarter of an hour the houses became fewer and farther between. Hedgerows began to fly past.

"What on earth is daddy doing out here?" asked the girl.

"You'll know in good time," replied the young man. "Just sit still and don't worry yourself. You'll learn the whole story in a few minutes." After passing through Leatherhead the car swung into a country lane, turned through an open gateway, passed along a drive and pulled to a standstill outside an old and desolate house. For the first time Dora grew apprehensive.

"What's it all about?" she asked. "I'm sure this isn't right. I don't believe my father is here. What have you brought me here for?"

Her companion's reply was singularly unexpected. Whipping his right arm around her neck, he tilted her head back and swung round his left hand to hold a soaking swab of ether across her nose and mouth. For a minute Dora Curtis struggled. Her movements became weaker and weaker. Finally she fell back, fading into a heavy unconsciousness.

More than two hours elapsed before she opened her eyes again. The girl rolled over and groaned. A throbbing pain was racking her head, and she felt dull and listless. For a time she tried to remember what had happened. The effort was beyond her. Suddenly she heard a voice.

"Are you all right how. Miss Curtis?"

Dora swung round on her side and opened her heavy eyes. A feeling of nausea was seizing her stomach. At first she could see three or four faces near her shoulder, but as seconds passed the features began to blend until finally only one countenance faced her.

"Where am I? asked the girl weakly. What s happened?"

"Don't get worried," said, the man soothingly. Dora stared at him. She bad never seen the man before. "I only want to have a talk to you about your father."

The statement startled the girl into a sudden return of consciousness, and she sat bold upright, her eyes staring anxiously around . the room; She was sitting on a divan m a large, sparsely-furnished drawing-room, and Venetian blinds had been drawn across the windows.  Then she looked at the man standing by her side. He was young, swarthy, and an expression of evil spoilt the regularity of his features.

"Where is daddy? " she asked eagerly. "I came here to see him."

"Your father," said the man, "is in trouble."

"Why? What's the matter with him?"

"Don't you know anything about what s happened?" inquired the man anxiously.

"Nothing at all."

Dora did not notice the expression of relief that flitted across the man's face as he listened to her answer. He commenced to talk with more confidence.

"I'll tell you exactly what the position is, because I'm sure you'll be able to help him. Your father was given some documents to safeguard for one of his clients. He was told that they were of great importance. Yesterday his client called at the office to have the documents delivered to him and your father said that he had forgotten where he had put them. His client didn't believe him. and since the papers were of such value, he called in the police."

"But," interrupted the girl, "daddy wouldn't steal anything."

"Of course he wouldn't," said the man reassuringly. "But the trouble is that his client won't believe that. To make matters worse, he has reported the matter to the Law Society, and your father is standing a grave risk of being struck off the Rolls as a solicitor. As friends of your father, we decided to do whatever we could to help him, and that's why we brought you here. You see, Miss Curtis, we thought that if we talked to you in your father's home you might get hysteria or lose your nerve and take some impetuous step that might imperil your father. That's why we brought you here. We're very, very sorry that we had to take such a drastic step, out fm sure that you'll sympathise with us later when you realise that it was done for the best."

"I know nothing about my father's business," said the girl, bewildered. 'What are these documents you're talking about?"

"I can give you a rough idea," replied the man. "It's a bundle of papers in a large blue envelope, and the outside of the envelope is marked 'Private and Confidential.' If you have any idea where these documents are we can pass the information on to the police immediately, and that would be the end of all your father's difficulties."

Dora suddenly bent forward and spoke excitedly.

"A large blue envelope, you say? Yes, I know where that is. My father handed one over to my fiancé two or three days ago and asked him to put it in the strong-room at the bank."

"Who is your fiancé? And which bank does he work at? It begins to look, Miss Curtis, as though you're going to save your father a lot of trouble. Funny tricks memory plays with you that he should have forgotten it. "That envelope is in the strong-room at Barne's Bank, in Aldersgate Street. My fiancé is Harry Frazer."

"All right Miss Curtis. That's all we want to know. We'll get in touch with the bank immediately and see that that envelope is released. I' think you'd better lie down and have a rest until you feel a little stronger, and then we'll drive you home. I wouldn't stay here; it's not too comfortable. Come this way."

The man took her by the arm, and she went with him unresistingly. The ether clouds were again bemusing her brain, and her step was unsteady. She faintly remembered being led up a staircase, and after that her consciousness left her again.

She had no idea of what time the awakened. It was dark. Dora felt around her with her hands and discovered the was lying on a bed. The cold night air commenced to clarify her brain, and with each increasing return of mental control her thoughts grew more and more apprehensive. The conversation in the room below came back to her vividly. Now she realised as the had not realised before that she had been talking glibly as a result of the reactionary effects of an anaesthetic. As her thoughts collected, so her suspicions grew into certainties, and the leapt from the bed and dashed towards the door. Her forebodings were certainly justified. The door was locked from the outside. Dora screamed and kicked violently at the door. There was no answer, no sound in the house. She flung herself on the bed and wept. It seemed to her that an age of time went by when nothing mattered but the horror and remorse that flooded her brain and the cascade of tears that drenched her face.

It was when her sobs were quietening down that she heard a scraping noise outside the window. For a time she could not muster sufficient courage to move from the bed. She heard a distinct knock on the window-pane, and this time she walked slowly and nervously across the room. The blind was drawn. She raised it. Against the dark grey of the sky she saw the dark silhouette of a man's head and shoulders and pressed a handkerchief to her mouth to stifle a scream that rose.

She could not see the man's face, and her thoughts were dimmed by a rising hysteria. It was some time before she realised that after all that had happened she had nothing to lose, and no risk could land her in a worse position than she was in. With her heart pounding against her ribs and a lump rising in her throat, she swung back the catch on the window and raised the lower frame.

"Are you there, Miss Curtis?" whispered the man outside.

"Yes," half sobbed the girl.

"Who brought you here?" asked the man.

"I don't know. Some man called for me at my home, told me that he would take me to my father, and then drugged me when we got here."

"Tell me exactly what you've said to them since you got here," urged the man, and be as quick as you can. I'm hanging on to a drain-pipe with one hand and the window-sill with the other, and I can't last out much longer.

"Who are you?" asked the girl.

"I'm working for the police," said the man, "and you can put every trust in me. I'm only here to help you. Now tell me everything."

The girl told her story in a flood of words. Had she seen the effect it had on the face of the man outside the window she would have been more bewildered than ever.

"That's everything you told them?" asked the man.

"Everything," replied the girl. "Are you going to get me out of here now?"

In the semi-darkness she saw the man shake his head emphatically.

"I'm sorry, Miss Curtis, he said, "that if I took you out of this house now it would raise suspicion among those who brought you here, and would spoil everything. I want you to be a brave girl and stay here a little longer. I'll put some one round to watch the house and see that you don't come to any harm. Above all, don't under any circumstances mention the fact that you've spoken to me tonight."

"When will I be released?" asked the girl tearfully.

"As soon as I am sure that it's safe. Will you promise me to say nothing to any one about my visit?"

"I will," said Dora, suddenly becoming imbued with some of the stranger's air of confidence. "But please do the best you can and get me out of here as quickly as possible. I'm terrified."

"Miss Curtis, I promise you that you'll come to no harm, and that you'll be released from here at the first possible moment. Be brave and don't get panic-stricken. Everything will be perfectly all right. Good-night"

Dora heard a slithering sound as the stranger vanished from the window and slid down the drainpipe. Tears were still welling in her eyes when she pulled down the window-frame, attached the bolt, drew down the blind and returned in darkness to the bed.

9: Andy Meets A granger

IT was ten minutes past ten when Andy Wilson arrived outside the ill-painted and blistering doorway of 45a Oakley Street. His hammering on the door-knocker brought a frowsy landlady to meet him.

"Mr. Pete Lees in?" he asked.

"Can't say," announced the landlady abruptly. "Top floor. Find him."

The woman wandered along the dirty passage and left Andy standing on steps which hadn't seen water for years. Wilson smiled half-heartedly, entered the house and commenced to ascend the narrow and rickety staircase, pressing on one side occasionally to give way to undesirable men, and still more undesirable women.

On reaching the top floor he searched round the landing in the semi-gloom, trying to peer through the midday twilight. While he looked a man lurched from a doorway facing him, and Andy stopped him.

"Where does Pete Lees live up here? he asked.

"Last room down there," replied the man, heading for the staircase with an ambling gait which made it seem impossible that he could arrive on the ground floor without sustaining a serious injury.

Wilson walked along to the door at the end of the corridor, rapped sharply with his knuckles and waited a response. He heard nothing. Again he knocked on the door and again he heard nothing. Gripping the knob of the door with his right hand, he. Pushed with his shoulder and the door opened. He walked into a small, squalid bedroom, redolent with the smell of stale beer, fusty in atmosphere and darkened by the fact that even at that time in the morning the blind was drawn. On the bed lay a man, still fully clothed, breathing stertorously through a wide-open mouth.

Andy looked at him for a moment, his lips twisted nastily. Then he walked. over to the man and shook him by the shoulders. Apparently Lees imagined that he was being restored from the throes of a nightmare, for he flung both arms out widely, muttered something indistinguishable, and turned over to face the wall on the far side. Wilson swore, raised the palm of his hand and smacked the man across his cheek. Even then it was half a minute before the man sat up in the bed, clinging with one hand to the brass knob on the antiquated bedstead and stared at him through glassy and uncomprehending eyes.

"Your name Lees— Pete Lees?" asked Andy.

"Maybe," slurred the other man, as though uncertain of his identity. Andy looked at him closely for a moment before snatching down the blind cord and letting light into the room. Then he waited back to the bedside and shook Lees by the shoulders.

"There are three men," said Andy emphatically, "I refuse to work with in my line of business. One is a man who lets mink run away with his brain. Another is a man who's lazy. And the third is a man who might talk without knowing what he was spilling. You, Lees, happen to be all three of them."

"Dunno what you're talking about."

"I'll be quite clear," remarked Wilson incisively. "I was told earlier on this morning that you were doing a job with me. If you're on this job, then I'm not. There isn't room for we two, Lees, on the one job. Ether you do it or I do it But I'm not going to work with you."

The man on the bed blinked his eyes and straightened his sitting posture as though struggling to bring some degree of sobriety back to his sodden brain and tremulous limbs. For, some time he sat both fists clenched on the bedstead behind him. Finally he spoke.

"This is a job," he said, "on which you want a strong-armed man. That's nothing in your. line. If I don't come with you there's no chance in the world of you getting away with the job."

"I'd rather crash on this job," said Andy, "than make a success of it if you wore working with me. I'm going to get in touch with the man running this show and tell him that if you're on this deal with me I won't touch it with a barge-pole."

"Then I'll get on the phone," said Lees belligerently, "and tell him that I can do the job single-handed, but that I'm going to draw the line at it if small boys like you are going to break in with me on it. You can go when you've heard this. Number One wants you and Sadie at his Wandsworth place at one in the morning. You've got three hours."

"I'll be there," remarked Andy. "And I'll tell him what I think about you. I don't mind chancing my arm when I can trust the people I'm working with. But I'm not going to take an excursion ticket to Dartmoor because I worked with some one like you. Good-night, Lees. I'll see you at one o'clock."

The man on the bed swung his legs over the edge of the ruffled clothes to pass some further comment. He realised then that he'd be wasting his breath. Apart from himself the room was empty. Andy Wilson had gone.

Wilson arrived on the pavement in Oakley Street feeling more than worried. Affairs had shaken his confidence in the unknown man for whom he had worked. Over the period of a year Andy had regarded Number One as a criminal superb in his judgment and his organisation.

A thousand thoughts and suspicions were still flooding through his mind when he turned along the south embankment facing St Thomas's Hospital, and commenced to walk towards Vauxhall. Andy Wilson knew that he was feeing the long, long trail to Dartmoor. That was enough in itself to terrify any man. But strangely enough, his nerves had not collapsed under thoughts of personal peril. His thoughts were not with Number One, or Lees, but with the girl living at Kilburn, whom he was hoping to marry. Andy knew that if he fell into the police net Sadie must fall with him.

Overcome by thoughts of the peril facing Sadie Burns, he sat down on a seat facing the hospital, bent his head forward in his hands and settled down to consider some way out of the trouble. Before his brain had collected a helpful sequence of thought, a voice by his side interrupted him:

"Will you have a cigarette?"

Andy was so immersed in his problem that seconds elapsed before he could realise that the question was addressed to him. Then he turned slowly to find a middle-aged man sitting by his side. Wilson looked along the dark embankment. There was no one else about Andy took another look at the man. He had never seen him before, and at the moment human companionship seemed good.

"I certainly will, he said. "Thanks very much," and he extracted a smoke from the man's packet.

"I want to talk to you," said the man.

Wilson whipped round savagely, almost with the frightened determination of a stag at hay. "I don't want to talk to you," said Andy. "I only thought of sitting here to have a comfortable smoke. If I've got to do my conversation piece as the price of a cigarette you can have your smoke back."

"Don't get so worried, Andy," said the other man.

"Andy? Andy? Where did you get that name from?"

"Listen to me," said the older man, patting him on the back. "You can sell a line of bluff to quite a lot of people, Mr. Andrew Wilson, but don't try and sell it to me, because I won't stand for it. You've just left Oakley Street, and I followed you here. Let's settle down and have a talk about things."

"I don't know you, so I don't see what there is that I can talk to you about."

"You'd be surprised," remarked the middle-aged man. "It may be by talking to me for half an hour you can get yourself out of being turned from a young crook into an old lag. I know you, Andy Wilson, and I know what you've been doing for the last twelve months. If I wanted to, I could land you in the position which you've been trying to earn for a year. Why you ever had the ambition to break granite at Dartmoor, I don't know. If you don't want to break granite, listen to me, and maybe I can suggest some way out for you."

"Who are you?" inquired Wilson, a little shaken and obviously worried.

"I'm nobody of any importance," said the other man. "But when one man in London is trying to put you into gaol and another man in London is trying to keep you out of it— and I happen to be the man who's doing his best to see that the gates of Dartmoor don't fasten on you... Well, you can be sensible and listen to me, can't you?"

"Sounds to me," said Andy Wilson, "as though there's more in this than meets the ear."

"You're getting sensible," remarked the older man. "Let's walk along the embankment, and then I'll have a talk with you."

"Lead the way and I'll follow you."

10: A Curious Conversation

NEARLY three hours before Andy took his walk along the Embankment Harry Frazer, Dora Curtis' fiancé, received an unexpected visitor at his home in Balham. At regular intervals, for nearly two hours, he had been telephoning the Streatham number, asking for his fiancée. As each call drew blank his worry increased, and finally he decided to discover for himself what was happening. He looked at his watch. It was nearly half-past seven. While he swathed himself in an overcoat and grabbed a hat from the hall-stand, the bell on the front door rang. Frazer, expecting news at any moment, hurried forward to open the door.

"Good-evening," said the man standing in the porch.

"Good-evening," responded Frazer, eyeing the man curiously.

His visitor was not more than thirty, and Frazer was sufficiently intelligent to appreciate the powerful facial features, the well-built body and the air of confidence that seemed to encircle the man. But he was puzzled. He had never seen the man before.

"Are you the man engaged to Dora Curtis?" inquired the visitor.

"That's me," replied Frazer.

"Then I'll come inside and have a talk to you for a few minutes," announced the man, and without waiting for any further invitation he walked through into the hall. Frazer, bordering on a state of bewilderment, followed him. The visitor threw his hat on to the hall-stand and turned to Frazer again. "Got a room here where we can talk privately for a while?"

"Surely. Come this way." Frazer led the way into the small and orthodox dining-room of a regulation London flat. The visitor walked over to the small mahogany table and seated himself on the corner of it. Frazer stood hesitantly, leaning with his elbow on the end of a sideboard.

"I suppose you're beginning to wonder where your fiancée is?" inquired the visitor suddenly.

"I certainly am," replied Frazer, and as he spoke the angle of his vision changed and his eyes grew larger as he stared at the knees of the visitor's trousers. The inside of one knee was ripped, and both trouser legs were smeared with dust and dirt.

"I'll tell you all about that in a minute," said the stranger.

"But first of all I want you to help me. I'm going to ask you a few questions."

"But who the deuce are you?" asked Frazer. "You come butting into this place without giving any name and start talking about my fiancée, and I've never seen you before, and you want some information from me. For all I know you might be the biggest crook in the world."

"Hardly that," said the visitor casually. "My name doesn't matter. You can call me Smith, Jones, Robinson or Brown. I know who you are. and less than an hour ago I was talking to Dora Curtis. She told me enough to send me hell-for-leather along to see you. A few days ago your prospective father-in-law handed you a blue envelope marked 'Private and Confidential.' He asked you to put it into the strong-room at Barnes Bank. Did you do that?"

"I certainly did." replied Frazer; "but I can't see why I should answer any of your' questions." The visitor looked steadily at Frazer. He noted the innocence revealed by the steel-grey eyes, some weakness around the line of the mouth, some trace of indetermination about the contour of the jaw.

"Had you any idea of what document or documents were in that envelope?" he asked.

"None at all. Whatever my prospective father-in-law asked me to do was good enough for me. I know he's straight What 1 want to know from you is this: Where is my fiancée?"

"I want to know more than that from you," remarked the stranger. "I'll ask you three questions, and when you've answered those three I'll ask you to take a short ride with me. The first question is this: Do you know the night watchman, at Barne's Bank well enough to take him into your confidence!"

"Of course I do," was the immediate reply.

"The second question is this: If a man bigger than the president of your bank ordered you to take immediate possession of that envelope containing the documents, would you be in a position to do it?"

"It sounds impossible to me that such a contingency could arise."

"But if it did arise, could you obtain possession of that envelope tonight?"

"I could," said Frazer, smiling as though amused by a trivial joke. "And the third question is this: If I asked you to accompany me to New Scotland Yard to meet the Commissioner of Police for the Metropolis, you would have no objection to coming with me?"

Frazer leant with his back against the wall and laughed.

"This sounds more like something from the films than a real life episode," he said. "Are you trying to have a joke with me?"

"Frazer," said the visitor, moving from the table and walking towards the door. "I've never been more serious in my life. We'll get a taxi. and to show you that there's no fun and no joke about my suggestion I'll leave you to give the address as New Scotland Yard. When we arrive there I'll leave you to tell the inspector at the desk that we have an appointment with the. Commissioner of Police."

Frazer stood up, straightened, and eyed his visitor dubiously.

"I've laid all my cards on the table so far as you're concerned," said the stranger. "There's nothing left for me to say. Let's be moving."

Frazer had scarcely time to appreciate what was happening before the visitor gripped his arm and propelled him through the door into the hall, through the front door, down the steps, and a minute later they were in a taxi speeding to Scotland Yard.

11: Number One Calls A Meeting

ON the third floor of some Wandsworth mansion flats, erected to satisfy the modern craze, one straight corridor ran along the length of five rooms. In the first three, rooms lived Alfred Cowley, the estate agent who built the flats. Continuing alone the corridor were the two other rooms leading to the luxury premises of the building. It was on the first floor of the latter part that four arrivals knocked at one o'clock in the morning. It might perhaps have had some significance that each one rolled his knuckles against the panels of the door with a different movement But most certainly each one was admitted without question.

The dining-room in the rear of the building was commodious and lavishly furnished. On both sides of the room, lying fiat against the walls, were mahogany sideboards. Along the centre of the room, spreading its elegant length over the expensive carpet stood an oval mahogany table. Four men sitting round the table were masked. Within six inches of the right hand of each man was a gun lying on the shining surface of the table. Only one man in the party was unmasked. He, with a broken nose, cauliflower ear and a twisted jaw, stood among them as a man who could fight when brains were not needed and a man who would have to abandon the fight when brains were used.

For two or three minutes there was silence before a man in evening dress stood up at the far end of the table and registered his complaint:

"It's true," he said, "that we're expected to do everything Number One asks us to do. I'm getting nervous about it I told Number One before that if the police ever walked into a party like this— and we all looked as though we're dressed for a fancy-dress ball— it would take more explaining than I could provide it with."

"Is that so?" said the man suddenly, who appeared from the door dividing the dining-room from the drawing-room. The men sitting round the table swivelled on their chairs to examine the newcomer. They didn't look for long. In spite of the mask, in spite of the clothes he wore, they realised they had seen him before. Number One had arrived.

Within ten seconds they knew that their guesses were right. He pressed his hands on the shoulders of the speaker, and said: "I heard what you said. If you fancy your chance as a man running this affair, then you can take my position from me. If you don't, and you've only been talking hot air, then you can beat it out of here and never let me see you again. I've prided myself on giving my men two warnings and shooting them on the call of three. You've had two. You can go"

"Give me a break," said the man nervously. "Doesn't seem fair to me that you should keep us waiting. You're giving nerves to all of us."

The men sitting around the table stared and said nothing. "I don't trust all you men. Lift up those masks," ordered Number One.

Again there was silence: but this time the silence did not last for long. A man rose to his feet, standing at the far end of the table, and directed an unseen glance— enveloped under the shadow of his mask— and said:

"It's easy for you to ask us to do that. We've done a lot for you without knowing who you are or where you come from. Since you're calling on us to lay our cards on the table and you know that each one of us has a criminal record, and because we're sitting here knowing that you've information about all of us sufficient to send us to Dartmoor, don't you thing it's time one man said, as I'm saying now: 'When Number One has raised the mask from his face so will we.'

"I thought I'd employed men. Seems a pity that I employed people who are yellow all through," commented Number One.

One man stood facing Number One, his shoulders squared almost as though he were standing to attention.

"I wouldn't say that if I were you."

"But you're not me."

"There are times when I'm grateful for that. I know you don't like people talking to you, but for the good of your health I'm going to say a few words. You made the biggest mistake you could have made when you told the men here that you wanted their masks off. They're not afraid of you. They're frightened about each other. Has it occurred to you that identity is as important for those men as it is for you? That's why you were asked to take your mask off first. Surely all that's obvious?"

"There may be something in it You might tell me now who you are. "

"I've got no objection. You know me well enough, Number One, and I've got nothing to be nervous about. Perhaps you'll take the screening from your face at the same time. I want to have a serious talk with you; and speaking into a piece of crepe isn't my idea of gaining confidence. What do you say about it?"

"No," replied Number One emphatically. "Once I'm known all the. organisation I've spent years building up will fall to pieces. From your voice I'd say I should know you."

The man raised his hand and pulled at the elastic band fastening the mask. Then he smiled at Number One. It was Andy Wilson!

"Thought you'd just come for your instructions." snapped Number One. "This looks funny to me, Wilson."

"If things hadn't looked funny I wouldn't have been here. If I hadn't wanted to tell you how things are fixed with me d'you imagine I'd have risked sitting down among all your boy friends? There's no need for both of us to stand up. Let's sit down, and then I'll tell you what s on my mind."

"I'll seat myself and listen to you. But―" There was a pause while Number One slid a hand into his pocket, drew out a snub-nosed automatic and laid it on the table before him. Then he continued: "But if you do or say anything I don't like it'll be curtains for you, and if you're pulling a cross on me and any one comes into this room the first person to get the works is you, Wilson."

Andy waved his hand impatiently and sat down. He drew a cigarette from his pocket, lit a smoke and then commenced to talk

"Some of the people working for you," commenced Andy, "are getting nervous, and I'm one of them. It isn't altogether as though we don't trust you; it's just that for the last six months things have been going wrong. Don't think I'm moaning because I'm nervous. I didn't know I'd got nerves until just lately, but now I'm beginning to suffer from them. I'm just telling you that if you don't do something to breed more confidence among the men and women working for you, your organisation will be cut to ribbons."

"I've done nothing to make them nervous. I've played straight with all of you. What's the big complaint against me?"

Andy eyed the man steadily for a few seconds before replying.

"It isn't so much a complaint as a suspicion; and there wasn't one man among your crowd who had guts enough to tell you. Tonight Sadie, Lees— unless I can find someone to take his place— and myself have got to handle a big job that you've arranged. I told Sadie to stay away from this party. I think you should join us on the job, and then when we know that you're in the same boat with us we'll have more confidence in you."

It seemed to Andy that the crepe mask moved as though Number One was smiling. But that, he thought, couldn't be possible.

"I'd come with pleasure," said Number One, "if it were another job. But I know nothing about safe-breaking, and I'd only be getting in the way."

"I don't want you to help me with the job, if it's a straight safe-breaking," remarked Andy. "I want you to come with me and sit down and watch me work. That will ensure to me that if some one turns informant and splits to the police you'll be in Dartmoor with me."

"Are you quite sure that you'll make a clean job tonight, and that there'll be no breakdowns?"

"I'm certain that there'll be no mistakes made tonight. But you haven't told me what the job is."

"In that case," said Number One, "I'll join you. Come with me."

The remaining men sat silently while Andy accompanied Number One into the next room.

"Last night," said Number One, "I sent you and Sadie to collect an envelope for me. It was not in the safe you opened. That envelope is in Barnes Bank. Aldersgate Street I have squared the night watchman to let us in. You and Sadie open the strong-room door, get that envelope for me and I'll give you ten thousand apiece. Over and above that, I'll safeguard you by being there at the time when the strong-room door is opened. How does that sound to you?"

"Two-thirty— an hour's time."

"Okay with me. What time do we get in?"

"What time will you be with us?"

"At three o'clock prompt."

"Is that a definite promise?"

"I don't say one thing and mean another. I'll be there."

"So will I, and let's hope nothing goes wrong. Just one other thing before I leave. Can you find some one to take the place of Lees? This is too tricky a job for a man like him to handle, and it's better done with, just Sadie and myself working two-handed."

"Sorry, but you'll take Lees."

Andy smiled wryly but philosophically. "All right," he said. "That's all. Number One. I'll be seeing you in an hour and a half at Barne's Bank."

"I'll be there, so now you can go to Kilburn and collect Sadie."

Andy left the flats and walked along .the road towards the taxi rank. He took the third cab, and it seemed significant that the driver, without waiting for an address to be given him, started immediately towards North London and Kilburn. Andy crouched in the corner of the cab, puffing hurriedly at a cigarette, his brow creased in a deep frown, and his face grew pale and more drawn as the taxi proceeded on its journey.

He stopped once on the way to telephone.

FOUR men sat around a table in New Scotland Yard. Before them was a pile of documents.

"There was Peter Davis," said Sir Andrew Mear, the Commissioner of Police. "He was found stabbed in a Battersea garage six months ago, obviously that was done by the man they call Number One. Arthur Jones was found at the side of the Spaniards, on Hampstead Heath. It seems certain that Number One did that. Sammy Gleitz was pulled out of the Thames. He didn't die of drowning. His neck was broken. That was another one done by Number One! Willy Sanderson was found garrotted at Stepney. That was another one. There are a few more, but it seems certain that if we can only get hold of that man we can put him in the dock on half a dozen murder charges. If we can collect him we can soon drag more evidence from the folks who worked for him."

"I hope," said Chief Detective-Inspector Ringwood. "that there'll not be many widows left behind when we try to arrest him. That man. whoever he may be, is as dangerous as an adder, and just as fast."

"I know all about that." said 'the Commissioner. "This man is thoroughly dangerous. I only hope that none of you fellows get shot up."

He paused to look at the faces round the table. Certainly there was no discernible sign of fear. The men sat with hard eyes and square jaws. They rose to their feet together and the Commissioner, with a glance of admiration, shook hands with each of them before they filed out of the room.

12: Robbery at the Bank

A FINE sleeting rain was spattering the pavement in Aldersgate Street when the policeman on night duty strolled along his beat. He walked past Barne's Bank, took a casual glance through the windows, noticed nothing that seemed unusual, and proceeded along his beat.

"Seems to me," said Andy, stepping from an alleyway on to the pavement, "that the way will be clear for half an hour. Come along, Sadie. Well get on and make a night of it."

The man behind him moved restlessly, and Andy turned quickly.

"Come on, Lees, you've come with me when I didn't want you, but since some one seems to me to be going into the jug over this break tonight it might just as well be you as me."

"Don't be stupid," said Lees, moving from the shadow of a doorway in the alley. "I told you that you wanted a strong-armed man on this job. and I'm going to look after that part of it You bust the side, and if anyone interferes with you I've got a friends here with me who'll stop the interruption."

Andy looked toward the man and saw that in his left hand he held an automatic.

Wilson pressed his hand on the man's wrist "One moment, Lees," he said. "It may seem amusing to you to walk round with that in your pocket: but to Sadie and myself it might mean the difference between three years and fourteen years in gaol. I don't intend to crib about breaking that safe, but I do object to doing a safe-breaking job with a man who's carrying a loaded gun. Either you walk in without that gun or you walk in without me."

"Getting a bit cold in the feet aren't you?" asked Lees.

"Never have been and never will be. But I've got savvy enough to know the difference between facing a judge on a charge of robbery and seeing a judge on a charge of armed robbery."

"I'm not dropping this gun," said Lees; "and if someone does a cross on me so that I have to break through a police cordon I'm quite content to bust my way through it with this gun. I'd rather pave my way to the gallows than pave my way to Dartmoor. I'm just funny that way."

"Listen to me," said Sadie, pulling her coat tighter around her as the night air beat with the wind. "I don't mind doing this job because I know that if I'm caught it'll be three, four or five years for me. But if we're all caught and they find in your pockets the gun you're carrying we're in for a stretch that we won't forget in a hurry."

Lees stared at them aggressively. Andy walked over to him and shook him by the shoulder.

"You may be a big man in your own estimation, but I'm in charge of this job tonight, and you either come into the bank without the rod or you don't come at all."

Lees looked at him and smiled. Then he handed over the automatic, butt first to Andy and commented: "Maybe you're right There's the gun. I'm going into the bank with you. I never let little things like yellow-livered men and women stop me from doing a job that I start on."

Andy slipped the gun into his pocket and looked at the man contemptuously.

"We'll make a move," he said, "and get this job over."

After emerging from the alley Andy looked up and down the desolate pavements, searching for any sign of Number One. The street was deserted. There was no one in sight, and he walked on with Lees on the inside of the pavement, both men holding Sadie by an arm until they arrived outside the entrance to Barne's bank.

Andy knocked twice on the door, once with a soft, weak knock and the second time with a strong knock. The door swung back and a man beckoned them inside.

After they had passed through the open door into the blackness of the bank a man sitting at an office window on the opposite side of the street readied out his hand for the telephone. Andy led the way into the public department of the bank, then the night watchman who had opened the door for them led them through a labyrinth of offices and corridors until he arrived at a steel door, criss-crossed with bolts and fastened with triple locks. Andy looked at the case in his hand and said to the man:

"Have you got the keys of this, or am I supposed to bust the door? And in any case, after we open this door are there any more to force before we get into the strongroom?"

"No," replied the night watchman surlily. "Once you've got this door open you've got nothing else to break except the outer and the two inner doors to the strongroom. I was offered some more money if I could get the keys of this outer, door, but it couldn't be done."

Sadie turned to Wilson with a questioning look and asked him:

"Can I help you at all, Andy?"

"No, child," he replied. "There are no combinations on these locks, and the only way I can open them is to cut them out with an acetylene welder or to blow them out with some 'soup' "

"Dear," said Sadie anxiously, "you're not going to use T.N.T., are you?"

"Of course I am," replied Andy, commencing to open his case. "All that you folks have got to do is to stand back while I fix the caps and blow these three locks."

"Darling," insisted Sadie, "we can stand back out of range when those caps fly off. But supposing you happen to step in the way of one of them?" Andy smiled as he turned round to the girl.

"I've been trying to persuade you to marry me for some time, he said, "and so far I've been unlucky. If you're so concerned about me getting hurt when I fire these three locks it shouldn't worry you to marry me."

"Wait a minute," said Lees. "I'm on business. I haven't come on a sentimental tour to glisten to the world's history of romances. Get on with the job, Wilson."

Sadie turned round angrily. "You mind your business," she said. "You're so yellow that you wouldn't chance your arm on firing those lodes! you only call yourself a strong-armed man because you earn your living by your hands, and you've got no sense above the shoulders."

Wilson pulled three steel caps from the suitcase and a small pointed acetylene welder. The three people stood around him while he pierced into the steel door with the stabbing flame of the welder: then he loaded the steel caps with cottonwool soaked in TNT, pressed them against the holes he bad made, screwed them against the locks with bolts of chromium steel, iridium pointed, fastened flexes from the electric light switchboard at the far end of the room, and then drew back.

"You folks," he said, "had better get into another part of the building while I fire these locks."

Andy waited until he was certain that they were clear of the room, and then pressed his thumb down on the button covering the end of the flexes. There was a blinding flash of light, a reverberating crash as though of thunder, and when Sadie, Lees, and the night watchman returned to the room they found Andy crouched in a corner, the collar of his overcoat pulled up to cover his head— and the door leading to the strongroom was swinging open on its hinges. Sadie walked over and clutched him by the arm.

"Gosh!" she said. "It gave me a real shock to hear those three locks bust with such a bang, and to think that you were in here among it. It's great to see that you're safe, Andy."

"That's all right, kid. It seems to me―" He stopped talking as he saw Lees and the night watchman striding across the room to join them. He paused only for a second, and then he continued:

"Well, we've got over one stile. There are two more to bust, and then we'll collect and hit for home."

"Are you going to use any more of that stuff?" asked Sadie.

"I'm going to use something a bit stronger than that," said Andy. "And I want you, Sadie, to get out of the way in case accidents occur."

Andy looked at his wrist-watch. It was a quarter to three. He turned, pulled the sleeves of his overcoat back and showed the watch to Sadie. She looked at it and nodded her head.

"Look here," said the night watchman, "I've drawn my money for the job I've done, and I'm getting out of here."

"Goodnight," said Andy, and he walked through the open door to face the next obstacle-between himself and the strong-room.

For a time Sadie and Andy stood side by side and scrutinised the door.

"This is a clever job," said Sadie. "Looks to me like three combination locks, one tumbler lock, and intersecting bolts governed by all the locks."

"You've forgotten something else," said Andy. "In the centre of the doorway is a spindle lock. That will take more blowing than any lock in London. I'll have to put a charge of stuff on that lock that'll blow heck out of this building if it backfires instead of going forward."

"If it does backfire," said Sadie, "what's going to happen to you?"

Andy shrugged his shoulders and smiled at her. "If it does backfire, my dear, there'll be nothing left of me. In fact, all you'll have left of me will be a memory, and I hope it won't be an unfortunate one. Make a start on those combination locks."

Andy paused and turned to speak contemptuously to Lees. "What good you are I don't know. Maybe you're so proud of your strong arms that you think we want to hire them. You're all wrong. As far as I'm concerned you can beat it." Andy took off his overcoat and produced a series of steel caps and his acetylene welder and started to work.

Sadie drew out a pair of stethoscopes, fastened the rubber flange on to the wall of the safe and commenced to twirl the combination coils on the safe. After ten minutes she turned to Andy and said: "The combination on the first lock is A.Z.W."

Then she nudged Andy and looked towards her wrist. It was two minutes to three. Lees stood behind them, watching their work with eagerness.

"If Number One isn't here in five minutes' time," said Andy, "I'm going to get out of it."

"If Number One isn't here in three minutes' time," replied Sadie, "I'll follow you so quickly that my feet will blister."

Two minutes afterwards the caps were fastened on the locks to be blown, and a steel container as big as a bowler hat was fastened on to the spindle lock in the centre of the door. By the time Andy had done this Sadie turned to inform him that the combination on the second lock was U.F.A.

Again Andy looked at his watch, and again the girl turned her face towards him expectantly. Both were getting worried.

"In two minutes' time I'll be missing," said Andy.

"In less than two minutes," remarked Sadie, "I'll be on my way to Kilburn and safety."

"What are you getting so nervous about?" asked Lees.

"It isn't that I'm getting nervous," said Andy. "I just want you to hold the fort while things happen."

"You'll have to blow this safe before you go," said Lees.

"You watch me," said Andy, "and then you'll find out what I intend to do."

Wilson took the stethoscope from Sadie's ears, bent down, and commenced to fasten the suitcase.

"Wait a minute." said Lees. "It seems to me that both of you are getting scared stiff."

Andy turned round, dropped his case, and looked in the direction of the doorway. Sadie was just leaving the room.

"I'll be straight with you, Lees," said Andy. "Number One told me that he'd be here at three o'clock. It's three now, and he isn't here. To blow the charge I've put in the cap covering that spindle lock, it needs more than my support. Number One can talk high and mighty until it comes to something dangerous like this job, then he's a missing link. You, Lees, can beat it home, and I'll see Sadie to her home, but I'm certainly not going to stay here and carry the can back for all that's coming to me."

"Wait a minute, brother," said Lees. "You seem to have gone wrong somewhere. I'm running as much risk as you are, and I want to know why you're suggesting clearing out of here now and leaving me to explain to Number One why you couldn't do the job."

"This is no time for arguing." said Sadie. "I've done my stuff as a 'fly by night,' and I'm getting tired of waiting to see who'll put the squeal on me. Andy, pick up your bag and we'll walk."

"But," said Lees angrily, "from the way you two were working you could have had this door open in another ten minutes."

"I'm a man," said Andy, "who believes in keeping appointments. The appointment I made tonight was made in such a way that either Sadie and myself walked out of here or we went out with a police escort, waiting for a life sentence apiece."

"What are you worrying about?" said Lees, straightening his tie and glaring at both of them.

"Your boss, Lees, and our boss promised me that he'd be in this bank with me at three o'clock this morning, so that I'd be certain there wasn't a double-cross. .He isn't here. I can smell trouble long before it arrives! And if ever I had a sense of smell, I've got it tonight."

Lees walked over to both of them, placed one hand on Sadie's shoulder and one on Andy's, and said:

"Then I'll tell you now what you've never heard from any other living being— I am Number One.

"When you were asking me, Wilson, if I'd come in on this deal I told you I would. I said that I'd foe here at three o'clock. I've kept my word. Now get on with the safe-breaking job."

Sadie and Andy drew bade unbelievingly. They looked at each other incredulously.

"He's either drunk or mad," said Sadie.

"I should think he's both." remarked Andy.

"I'm neither," said Lees. "If a man can't pretend to be drunk, as I did when you called on me a few hours ago, then he's not fit to be called a good crook. If a man can't wear a crepe mask to cover a scar across his face, then he can't have much intelligence. For over a year I've employed you. You've been looking on me as a third-class crook. I am now, and have been for three years, the only man Scotland Yard couldn't break."

"Let's cut out the cackle." said Sadie, "and get down to the job. Come on, Andy. Get your charges all fixed while I tickle this last lock. In another five minutes the job should be through."

"Whatever you say goes with me," said Andy. He walked over to the door and examined his charges, trying to ensure that there would be no backfires. Lees watched the activities of both with suspicious caution. His right hand was holding a second automatic in his pocket If was not long before Andy stood back and gave the all-clear. Immediately Sadie and Lees moved, out of the room, but as she left the girl stopped to clutch Andy by the arm.

"Don't get hurt, dear," she whispered. "I want to marry you."

Wilson, pale faced, smiled at her and walked over to the corner of. the mom, holding four flexes In his hand."

13: Arrest!

THERE was a crash. The roar of the explosion shook the room. It was a minute before Andy dared raise his head to see what had happened, but his arrangements had been successfully made, the spindle lock had gone. Quickly, one after the other, be pressed the plungers on the remaining lengths of flex. Then he walked forward and swung open the outer door of the strong-room. Sadie and Lee returned to the room, and Number One patted Andy on the shoulder.

"Clever piece of work." he said.

Wilson scowled at him and made no reply. He and Sadie stepped forward to examine the inner door.

"This is your job, my dear," he said to Sadie. "There are only three combination locks holding us back."

The girl replaced the stethoscopes in her ears and fastened the diaphragm, centred by a rubber flange, over the first lock. Andy lit a cigarette and paced the floor of the room nervously, raising his wrist from time to time to look at his watch. It was four o'clock when Sadie announced that she had found the combination for the last lock. Lees moved forward eagerly.

"Now I'll get what I came for," he said. He stood by the side of the girl while she twisted the face of the lock. Andy stood immediately behind him. The door of the strongroom swung' back.

Two things happened simultaneously. Wilson made one dive and put a grip like a vice on Number One's right wrist. And four men walked out of the strong-room.

Lees whipped round with a curse and struck at Wilson with his left hand. The blow landed high on Andy's cheekbone and for a second he loosened his grip on the man's wrist There was a dull plop, and one of the men rushing from the strong room fell with a bullet through his right knee. Andy wrenched once again at the man's right hand and before Lees could pull the trigger again he was lying on the floor under a heap of men. The air was filled with blasphemous curses. But Lees soon quietened down, particularly after his head had been bounced two or three times on the floor.

Sadie and Andy smiled triumphantly at each other. Chief Detective-Inspector Ringwood stood up and knocked the dust from his trousers.

"Congratulations to both of you," he said. "You've put up a very fine performance."

"Thanks," said Andy. "You remember, of course, what your part of the bargain was?"

"Of course I do. As far as we're concerned Lees was arrested while trying to break open this strong-room, and at no time have the police ever associated yourself or Sadie with any form of crime. I'm only hoping that you're going to keep your part of the bargain and live like ordinary law-abiding citizens

"Don't you worry yourself about that," said Sadie. "I'm going to spend the rest of my life seeing that Andy sticks to the straight and narrow path."

"Where's Sanderson?" asked Ringwood suddenly, turning round in a startled manner.

"I'm here," said a man, walking out of the strongroom.

Andy and Sadie gasped. The man seeing them should have been in Brixton Gaol. Sanderson was the man who had interrupted the safe-breaking on the previous evening. Lees rolled over on the floor and glared at him.

"Why have you hounded me down like this?" he asked. "I've never done you any harm, and I don't know you."

Sanderson eyed him steadily.

"Perhaps you don't know me," he said slowly. "But I had a kid brother named Willy, one of the nicest kids this world ever saw until you got hold of him and put him on the crooked road. Poor Willy found out that your game didn't suit him. He was going to tell me all about it. I was Detective-Sergeant Sanderson of New Scotland Yard. Before that boy could say anything to me you had him throttled in Stepney. That was bad enough. But maybe you didn't know that. on the day his body was found, my mother committed suicide." He paused, and there was complete silence in the room before he continued.

"I told my father— I promised my father― that if it took me the rest of my life I'd get you. I pledged him that either I'd go to the gallows for murdering you, or I'd see that you went to the gallows. A policeman couldn't do those things. So six months ago I resigned from the Yard. Since then I've turned night into day following the movements of every person you'd employed, trying to discover the identity of Number One. You thought, Lees, that you could tuck me away for a few years when you framed me last night. I told the full story to the Commissioner of Police, and this is the result of it."

Sadie walked over to Sanderson impulsively and gripped his hand.

"Mr Sanderson." she said, I think you're a great man."

He turned round and forced a smile to his face.

"Thanks, Sadie," he replied. "I said I'd got no interest left in life. That's wrong. I've still got one pleasure coming to me. I'm going to be Andy's best man on the day he marries you."

Two of the detectives carried from the strongroom the oxygen container. They had found it necessary to strengthen the air, as it became vitiated. Andy placed his arm round Sadie and started to walk away.

As they left, Lees stumbled to his feet and snarled at Sanderson. "I suppose you think I'll get twenty years for this job?"

"I don't. If I thought that I'd shoot you. The gallows are waiting for you, Lees."

"You've got no murder jobs on me, and you know it."

"You're wrong. A few hours ago I collected your blue envelope. Makes you look a bit paler, Lees, and it might well. The document in that envelope seems to me more like your personal diary than anything else, and we can prove the handwriting and the facts circumstantial to every case;. You must have been mad to keep a record of your crimes. What happened to you, Lees, is what happens to so many crooks— you sensed your power, multiplied it, and felt so proud of your achievements that you couldn't resist writing them down.

"That was pretty bad as a prize blunder. But when you told another man, Sandy Kane, in a burst of conceit, that he could read them before he burnt them you paved your way to the gallows. For six months I've followed members of your gang. I happened to be following Andy on the night when he broke into Curtis's office. A friend of mine— whose brother, Sammy Gleitz, was murdered by you— followed them to William Street and then reported to me. I suppose you ran out through the back door and came round to the front when I was in the house.

"After I told my story to the Yard, Lees, they agreed to throw a dummy in Bow Street Police Court. I was released instead of being taken to Brixton. I thought then that I had you.

"Lees, you're a careless man. If you'd gone through Curtis's desk you'd have found three letters. One was from Sandy Kane offering that document of yours to Curtis for one thousand pounds. The second was Kane's receipt for the money. The third was a brief note from the unsuspecting Harry Frazer informing his prospective father-in-law that the envelope had been duly lodged in this strongroom.

"After that it was easy. I had Dora Curtis and Frazer watched and followed. I talked to Miss Curtis after you had taken her to that house at Leatherhead. Then I knew exactly what you would do, and I knew that Sadie and Andy were the only people who could do it for you. So I arranged for a Yard man to talk to Andy, and for Andy to pass on the information and our promises to Sadie. Perhaps you've got brains enough to realise that we persuaded Andy to coerce Number One into coming here tonight."

Two men pulled Number One to his feet and they left the room together, Chief-Inspector Ringwood accompanying them. For a moment Sanderson stood in the room alone.

Then Chief-Inspector Ringwood returned, walked over to the solitary man and shook him by the hand.

"I'm so excited about arresting Number One," he said, "that I'd forgotten to tell you the thing that will give you an interest in life. The Commissioner of Police sent you this personal message: 'I refuse to accept Sanderson's resignation from the Force. Please tell him to report for duty at New Scotland Yard tomorrow morning. And tell him that he reports as Detective-Inspector Sanderson."

________________

2: Call in the Yard

The Thriller Mar 2 1935

Weekly Times Melbourne 6 Jun 36

1: Limehouse Night

SAMMY PETERS strolled along Limehouse Causeway with a jaunty stride, a smirky smile; and a feeling of hilarity. He had no reason to feel disconsolate. His pocket contained twelve pounds. Attached to his right arm was Elsie Meers, whose beauty was known from Stepney to Tidal Basin.

"You're a great kid," he told Elsie, squeezing her arm tightly to indicate his enthusiasm, his sense of proprietorship.

"You're not so bad yourself." said Elsie. The girl believed firmly that beauty never enthuses. "Where are we going?"

"To the pictures, cherub."

He was wrong. A few yards farther along the Causeway a man stepped from a darkened doorway, and strolled across the pavement.

"I want a word with you." he told Sammy.

"Can't you see I'm busy?" remarked Sammy.

"Forget it!" The man's tone was offensively casual. "When my boss wants to meet people, their girl-friends just walk home."

"Are you telling me―" started Elsie.

"Yes, lady," said the man easily. "I'm even telling you. Good-night!"

Sammy stretched to his full five-feet-three.

"You're looking for trouble, stranger," he snapped, "and if you don't beat it I'll provide you with all you want."

The man laughed nastily. He was tall and bulky. A nose spreading over a quantity of his face indicated that some one had once hit him with greater force than Sammy could possibly muster. But there was a hard, icy light in his pale blue eyes that made Sammy shiver. His girl-friend watched her escort closely.

"Are you going to let this big stiff talk to you like that?" she shrilled. "Send him on his way. He's making the pavement look untidy."

The stranger grinned. "One day, girlie," he said. "I'll come round and take you for a walk myself."

"Look here," said Sammy, realising that he was losing prestige. "You can't stand there trying to ride high and mighty over me!"

"Is that so? Listen, little boy. The Dropper is waiting to see you!" Sammy took a deep breath, and his pale face grew even more pallid. Slowly, he released his grip on Elsie's arm. The girl looked at him wonderingly. and her carmined lips started to curl scornfully.

"Elsie," said Sammy, after licking his dry mouth, "we'll have to call off the date. I'm sorry. I'll see you tomorrow!"

"Think again," snapped the girl. "I've got no time for yallerlegs. I thought I'd come out with a man. The mistake was mine. Take your boy-friend with you."

She spun round on her high heels, and strutted down the Causeway. Sammy stared after the retreating figure for a second, and then turned to the smiling man by his side.

"That's caused it," he said. "What am I wanted for?"

"Couldn't say. I was only told to collect you."

"I've never set eyes on you before. How'd you know me?"

"I didn't. But I'd seen the girl before, and I was told to collect the fellow with her. Come on— this way!"

Sammy was growing cowed. As his companion turned off the Causeway and dived into the criss-cross of narrow streets leading down to the West India Docks he shivered. Followed an uncomfortable period of silence. Then the stranger turned off down a street, passed into the darkness of an alley, threaded his way through, and walked quickly under an arch into another alley. Peters was almost running. The big man's raking strides swallowed distance. A dim lamp shone at one end of the alley, breaking the darkness with a sickly light. Sammy pulled the collar of his overcoat closer about his neck. A cold, dank river mist was eddying up from the nearby Thames. At the far end of the alley a small flagged passage turned to the left. The guide led the way round the corner. Sammy thought his knowledge of East End topography was more than adequate. But the stranger had defeated him on this sudden walk. They reached the end of the passage before the man turned to Sammy.

"We dive in here," he said. "Watch your step. There are no lights on."

Sammy gulped, felt a cold shiver start at the base of his spine, and sensed the hairs lifting on the nape of his neck. They ploughed through the darkness, turning to the left, and suddenly the big man opened a door. He stumbled into a back passage. Peters groping in the rear.

"Shut the door as soon as you're through," came the hoarse instruction, "and don't make too much noise. Let me grab your hand, and I'll lead the way for you. Don't try to hurry!"

Sammy closed the door, seized the extended hand, and edged his way forward. The air was damply musty, and the cold seemed to grow more intense. Sammy was straining his hearing to catch every sound, but, apart from the trivial shuffle of their feet, there was none.

"Bend your head. We're going through a low doorway."

Sammy bent obediently, and still led by his left hand, trailed his right along the wall as a guide. He could feel the dampness of soddened plaster. As they went along the passage he counted seven paces. Then his guide stopped, and turned to him:

"We start down to the cellar when we get through this door. Be careful— the steps are wet and slippery."

Peter said nothing— there was nothing for him to say. At odd seconds he thought of Elsie, thought of the film he wanted to see, tried to think of anything except the Dropper.

The descent to the cellar was slow and dangerous. Twice Sammy felt his feet sliding on the steps. He grew colder and colder— and not only from the chilly air. When at last they reached level ground again Sammy felt himself dragged round to the left, and led through a darkness so definite that it could almost be felt.

Peters was baffled. He knew that under the old Limehouse houses lay some very curious cellars, relics of the days of the tong wars, the heyday of smuggling, the peak period of dock robberies, and hiding places of a multitude of crimes, but the one through which he stumbled now seemed more ominous than anything he could have imagined. His nostrils caught the muggy smell of river water. That added to his puzzles.

His guide had led the way towards the river, but they should still be far away from it. Again Sammy waited while his escort opened a door. Once more they plunged through darkness.

"Where are we going?" whispered Peters.

"Never mind about that. We'll be there in a few seconds," came the hoarse reply.

"I hope so." said Sammy, speaking through chattering teeth. A few paces, and then he felt his arm gripped, and he was pushed forward, while the thug stood on one side to make way. Sammy extended his right hand, and felt the face of a door. He waited, hesitantly, for instructions.

"Give three double knocks," ordered the guide. "Password is 'Revel.' "

Sammy raised a trembling hand and knocked. He heard a slur of movement, and the squeak of a hinge. Then a voice spoke-so close to his ear that Peters started violently.

"Who is it?" asked the invisible man.

"Revel," stuttered Sammy. There came a click of a lock, and Sammy heard hinges whine as the door drew back. Still he could see nothing. There was no light beyond.

"Come this way," said the unknown. Peters, pushed from the rear, hurried through the doorway, the guide holding his left arm from the back. As soon as he crossed the threshold someone held his right wrist.

"Follow me," said the newcomer, and immediately started moving away. Peters could feel blobs of perspiration trickling down his face. He clenched his teeth, tried hard to appear unconcerned. The effort was not a success. The leader opened another door, and, for the first time in five minutes, Sammy saw a light. He closed his eyes for a second to steady the effect of the sudden light and opened them again to discover that the illumination was dimmer than he had thought.

Facing him was a long cellar, and from the far end of the low ceiling hung an acetylene lamp. The floor was flagged with stone, and the walls were green with age and damp. In the centre of the cellar was a long table, and around it sat four men. There was no other furniture. Sammy advanced tremulously, examining the men as he drew nearer to them. The lines across his forehead deepened. He knew none of them. He was led to a chair and slumped into it with relief. The man who had opened the door walked over to the far wall. It was then that Sammy jumped again, for the man spoke into the wall!

"They are all here now, sir," he said deferentially.

Peters gulped and took another look. He could see nothing except the wall. It seemed that the speaker was talking to the bricks.

"Very well," came a deep, resonant voice. "I am ready to start!"

Sammy blinked his eyes and took another look. The speaker was invisible. He looked at the other men. They appeared quite un-surprised.

"Good evening, gentlemen," said the mysterious speaker. "This, as you know, is the Dropper— pleased to meet my East End employees and friends again. Particularly am I delighted to note that our latest arrival obeyed the message with such promptitude. I will commence business without any further waste of time"

The men bent their heads forward, staring towards the wall. Sammy was dazed. It already seemed a far cry to Limehouse Causeway!

2: Secret Orders

"AT seven o'clock this evening," the Dropper commenced, " a ship arrived in the Thames from Oslo. It is now in Bugsby's Reach, waiting to get into Victoria Docks. The ship is the Christina. Among a mixed cargo is a consignment addressed to the Pinakothek Gallery in Munich, which is due for transhipment. I do not intend that it shall reach Munich, although the consignment has, in fact, been dispatched by the Christina for safety. It was thought that such a cargo would never be expected on such a boat My agents provided me with the information."

The Dropper paused. His speech was metallic, incisive. The men, their faces strained, continued to stare at the wall. Then the voice went on:

"The consignment is not considerable in size. The length is eight feet the width five feet, and the depth nine inches. The total weight may be a hundred pounds, or a trifle more. That article, I understand, is being kept for safety in the captain's cabin. I want it. and I am going to have it."

Sammy raised his hand, and ran his fingers between his collar and his throat.

"I have made most of the arrangements, but certain matters will have to be left to you men. It is to be hoped, for your own sakes, that no faults will be made. The consequences of any errors might be very, very troublesome for all of you! I hope I am making myself quite clear."

The silent men nodded their heads. They knew what the Dropper could do. He was making himself quite clear— a little too clear as far as the warning concerned Sammy.

"The most difficult problem in any matter such as this is to gain access to the boat I have saved you the trouble. The officer taking over during the middle watch will offer no opposition. I have made the necessary arrangements with him. That watch, as you know, lasts from midnight until four a.m.

"Having said so much, it only remains for me to give instructions, to you individually. I do not want to mention your names now. That is opposed to my policy. I therefore want you to walk over to this wall one by one, and I will give directions to each of you. Start from the head of the table."

A tall, burly man rose and stepped across the cellar. His face was yellow rather than pale, and a long raincoat, swathed closely round his body, accentuated his height.

"I want every man: in the room to pay close attention to all the orders given," said the Dropper. "That will save unnecessary repetition. You, my friend, will find a motor launch waiting at the side of Miller's Wharf, Silvertown, at midnight. All the other men here will join you there at that time. You have from now until midnight to discover the exact position of the Christina. Take the launch along as quietly as possible, and get enough way on her for you to cut off the engine a fair distance from the ship. Apart from that, all you have to do is to wait in the launch until the others rejoin you. Have I been thoroughly understood?"

"Yes, sir," said the man.

"Next man," ordered the Dropper.

A middle-aged man with a swaggering gait, and a general air of arrogance, stepped across to the wall.

"In that, launch," said the Dropper, without hesitating, " you will find a key hidden Under the third floorboard at the stem. Open the locker with it. There you'll find three automatics, all silenced, and a bottle of butyl chloride. Far at the back of the locker is an ether spray. I want you to board the ship first, and lead your other men as an attacking party. I don't mind whether you shoot them, dope them, or leave them alone— so long as I get that consignment. If the crew cause trouble let them have the works. Try to grab the captain first, and dope him while you search his cabin for that package. Get the consignment down to the launch as best you can. I leave that to you, but there should be some very simple way. All clear?"

"All clear, sir."

"Very well The next two men at the table needn't rise from their seats. I leave them to take their instructions from you as occasion demands. But see that they .pre armed before you board the Christina. Now I'll speak to the next man."

Sammy rose leisurely, trying to appear unconcerned. But he could feel a curious pain m the pit of his stomach, a singular dryness in his mouth, an odd twitching of his fingers, end a shaking tremor running down his legs, making his walking balance unsteady.

"Yes, sir," he said, voice unnaturally pitched.

"You have worked for me before, said the Dropper; "but this is the first time we have met. I have watched your work with interest You have never let me down on a job. You have always obeyed the orders rant to you, and you have been successful For those reasons I feel that the time has come for you to receive more important work. That is why I have sent for you tonight. If I hadn't trusted you I would never have promoted you to the work I am giving you. Clear?"

"Quite, sir."

"Right! Well, you travel in the launch- with the other men, board the ship with them, and give such assistance as you can. The important part of your job arises afterward. When the launch has returned to Silvertown you will find a lorry waiting at the rear of the wharf. Under your instruction the men will assist you to put the package in that lorry. The men will then leave you, and go to their respective homes. To you will be given the task of seeing that the package is safely delivered to me. Is that all dear?"

"Yes, sir," said Sammy, without any enthusiasm.

"You are to drive as though making for Sevenoaks. Just before you come to the town a man will put up his hand to stop you. if says 'Is this the way to Tonbridge?' reply 'Yes.' He will then give you further instructions. Don't make any mistakes. Just as I pay heavily for work well done, so do I make those pay who make mistakes. Is there any question you wish to ask— any additional information you want?"

"I don't think so."

"Never say that to me. I employ only those who know what they're doing. I have no room for men who can only think they know."

"I am sorry, sir," spluttered Sammy.

"That will do. I have finished with you. If you are successful you'll be more than satisfied with my treatment of you. The same applies to all the men in the room. The men I nave not yet spoken to will remain behind after the others have left I have special work for them which doesn't concern the remainder of you."

The men thus dismissed rose immediately and started to file out of the cellar. Sammy turned to his old guide, worried and anxious.

"Tell them to take me with them," he said. "I don't know my way out―"

The man gave the necessary instructions, but as Peters was hurrying out the Dropper called him back.

"You have more than two hours yet before you need start work. In the meantime collect a map, and make certain that you'll be able to follow the road I gave you without fumbling. And, for your guidance, the lorry waiting for you is a Morris Commercial you drove one before you joined me— that's why I selected it, Good-night!"

Sammy arrived in the street more dazed than ever, verging on panic at the thought that he might have forgotten, or misunderstood, some of the instructions. His associates left him immediately they reached the street and he walked slowly on his own towards the Causeway. He was not happy. In the days when he drove a van, Sammy had thought crime was exciting, profitable, a "swell" existence. That perhaps, was why he left his steering-wheel to commence on a career as "van-dragger"— raiding goods from merchants' vans. At first it seemed novel and thrilling, and it certainly brought more financial grist to the mill than mere lorry-driving. But at times he found the stolen parcels hard to fence, had found it difficult to persuade men to pay more than a tenth of the value of any article he Stole. It was then that he found a more reasonable fence— one of the many men who worked for the Dropper.

Thereafter he found himself more and more in the meshes. Instructions would, reach him by a dozen and one channels; instructions which sent shivers down his back, but which he was afraid to disregard. The Dropper had left a trail behind him in the seamy side of the underworld that could not be ignored.

"I never wanted to be a big-timer," Sammy told himself again and again as he wandered back to the Causeway. '"I wanted to carry on in my own little way, and now this happens! Oh, what's the use―"

His memory restored to him the conversation, the orders about the carrying of automatics, the use of ether and butyl chloride.

"Darn the Dropper!" he said bitterly.

But he whispered the words so softly that even the air didn't pick them up. It was said that the Dropper had a million ears in London. Sammy thought of Elsie Meers, and his face became pathetic with misery as he plunged on, his cold hands sunk in his overcoat pockets.

3: The Price of Knowledge

MIDNIGHT chimed. A strong wind was whipping across the Thames, and the night was bitterly cold. The men on the wharf huddled together in silence, blowing into their cupped hands, ready to make the move upstream. It was ten minutes later when the launch slid quietly into the water, engine just ticking over, and moved away on the breast of the tide.

Before they left the wharf Sammy had been handed his automatic. He sat back nursing it with a horrible dread flooding his mind. He didn't want to hurt any one. But what would the Dropper say afterwards if he was told to fire and did not? The thought made Sammy colder than the night could ever do.

The launch was twenty yards from the bank when the pilot opened up, and there were a few dim chugs as the nose was turned upstream. The men's faces were tensed, their eyes staring unseeingly over the black water. After a time, the lights on the launch were extinguished, and the engine was switched off.

"We're about seventy yards away from it," whispered the pilot Away on their right they caught the lights of a ship. A minute later they could see the black shadow of the hulk limned against the clouded sky. The man, by the side of the pilot bent over the side of the launch, and groped with his hand as . they touched the side of the Christina with a faint bump.

It was some time before they found a mooring-rope for small boats trailing from the stern. The pilot held it, steadied the launch by it, and one of his associates raised a dim voice:

"Ahoy there! Any one aboard?"

The men waited anxiously. For a short time all they heard was the sucking gurgle of the Thames swirling round the cargo-boat. Then a soft, cautious voice called from above:

"Who's there?"

"Friends— as arranged," was the reply.

"Hold tight for a moment. Ladder coming down."

They waited until the end of a rope-ladder appeared through the darkness. The man by the pilot's side was the first to start the ascent One by one they made their way up the swinging ropes. The passage was slow and difficult.  Sammy, his teeth chattering, was the last to essay the-climb. When finally he clambered over the rails his associates were wending their way along the deck. He joined the procession.

At the head of a companion-way the man who had lowered the ladder stopped, and drew them together.

"Bottom of the steps and turn right. Fourth door along's the captain's, and you'll find what you want there. I'm going to get into the launch."

He slid away into the darkness, and the men started the descent of the narrow, steep stairs. Below they found a dim light burning, and tiptoed along the corridor. Then they stopped, and the leader pointed to a door. In his left hand he held a torch, in his right a gun. He nodded towards the door, and whispered to the nearest man:

"Open it, and then stand back."

The man thus hidden turned the handle and slid the door back quietly. Immediately their leader turned on his torch, and stepped into the cabin. The others crowded in on his heels. The torch shone its beam quickly round the cabin, picking up the position of the bunk just as the captain raised himself.

"What the―" he commenced, and got no further. "

"Hoist those, hands," snapped the leader. "There are three of us holding down on you. We've come for that consignment for Munich."

"The hell you have," said the captain, sitting more erect. Sammy backed away a little and closed the cabin door.

"Where is it?" asked the Dropper's man.

"I don't know."

"You soon will. Want to hand it over or die?"

"You couldn't kill me— you'd swing."

The man seemed quite calm now the first shock of the visit had passed.

"Couldn't, eh? You'd be surprised. I'll count five— that's all. At the end of that count either I know where that package is or you're rubbed out. Take your choice. This is no leg-pull I'm starting. One―"

The captain blinked his eyes, and moved as though to. slip down from his bunk. The Dropper's leader stepped forward and stuck his gun into the man's ribs. Sammy could see the cabin swirling round him. The automatic in his hand was swaying from side to side.

"Two—"

"Don't be a fool" said the captain, growing more uneasy.

"Three―"

"You can't murder me— not in England-like this!"

"Four―"

"No, no, no!" The captain's voice was a whimper.

"For the last time," said the thug grimly, "are you going to tell me where that package is, or do I shoot? I'll give three seconds. When I say 'Five', I shoot!"

The captain's eyes protruded, and his weather-beaten face began to grow pale. His hands clutched tightly at the clothes. Sammy saw the scene as though through gauze.

"Five! Take it!" There was a faint, dull plop. An odd expression flooded the captain's face. His mouth opened, then sagged. His hands started to move toward his chest, but dropped before they could reach it. A spreading patch of red showed on the left side of his pyjama coat Then he reeled over and flopped down, his head hanging half over the bunk's ride. The murderer blew calmly down the muzzle of his gun before turning to the men.

"Obstinate swine," he said, without a flicker of emotion. "Start on the cabin, boys, and let's get out of here!"

They turned on the light, and Sammy recovered himself before his fright could be discovered. He had been propping himself against the ride of the cabin, waiting until the swirl of mist cleared from his eyes, until some strength came back to his tottering legs, until waves of dumb fear ceased threatening to throw him into a faint.

Without looking at the man in the bunk, he stumbled round with his associates, searching here and there for the consignment. It was soon found, lodged against the wall in the captain's bathroom. The consignment was light, but cumbersome. Once or twice, on their way to the deck, a corner of the package clicked against woodwork, and the men stood rigid, waiting until all was silence again.

The betrayer of the Christina had left a spiral of rope on deck immediately above the launch, and they secured this rope around the package. Then the leader sent Sammy down to the launch to assist in steadying the consignment while it Was lowered. Peters thought he was more likely to arrive in the Thames than the boat His heart was pounding into his ribs with the force— as it seemed to him— of a trip-hammer, and there were seconds When his limbs felt jellified.

Three or four minutes later the launch pushed off from the side of the Christina, and floated downstream for 30 yards before the engine burst into a gentle purr. As the boat ran down-river, two men balanced the cargo while the remainder sat, tense and keen-eyed, guns in their hands, searching for any sign of a police boat. But they reached Miller's Wharf safely, and at five minutes past one Sammy Peters started the engine of his lorry, and turned the vehicle out on its journey.

He felt better now. It  was mere comfortable to be alone, even, though his cargo spelt a murder, and the night air bit into him. As he passed through Greenwich Marshes, and on to Lee Green, it seemed that the events of the evening were too staggering to be. true. His mind was dulling, refusing to accept that Sammy had that evening seen a man butchered in cold blood. So he drove on through Bromley, and then to Farnborough. Soon he would have to search for the waiting man.

He had not long to wait. Shortly before he reached Riverhead a man stepped into the road, and Sammy trod on the brake. "Is this the way to Tonbridge?" inquired the man.

"Yes," raid- Sammy, stopping the lorry. The man advanced and bent over the edge of the driving seat.

"Then turn right to Brasted, then left, and then left again to Leigh. A man will stop you this side of Leigh, and ask for a lift to some place. Ask him what he'll give you. If he says he'll give you a bob, let him ride with you. That's all."

Peters started again, feeling weary. He wondered where this early morning drive would end, how long it would be before a policeman stopped him and asked awkward questions. His foot pressed down harder on the accelerator, so that he almost missed the man who hailed him when he reached a spot a mile outride Leigh:

"Give me a lift to Maidstone, mister," said the man.

"What'll you pay me?"

"A bob."

"Jump in!"

The stranger had a black felt hat pulled down over his face, and a well-worn overcoat was turned up round his chin. Immediately Sammy engaged the clutch he received further instructions.

"Turn right on the Tonbridge Road, pass through the town, take the road, to left at Pembury, and carry on until you get the other ride Yalding on the Maidstone Road. Stop when I tell you to. Get going!"

Peters travelled along the road without speaking. The stranger's way of giving orders was compelling.

Peters sighed. After what he had seen and done that night a little extra trouble didn't seem to matter. They were a mile beyond Yalding when the instruction was given:

"Slow down. Hundred yards on your left you'll see a house standing back. The drive gate is open. Turn in there, and drive straight into the garage facing you. That's

Peters swung the wheel saw the laurel beds flanking the drive, and headed through the open doors of a garage. He pulled the lorry to a stop, and stretched himself, then started to open the door.

"Wait!" said the stranger. "Stay where you are for a while. I want to talk to you. Did everything go off according to plan?"

"I think so."

"Don't you know whether it did or not?" asked the man sharply. Sammy started to twist round. A sudden thought flashed across his mind— a thought that froze him to the marrow.

"Are you the Dropper?" he asked. "Don't ask questions. What happened tonight? Tell me all about it."

Sammy told the story falteringly. Once again he was gripped by fear. The hidden man by his ride just listened, saying nothing. After Sammy had finished there was silence, and his companion spoke:

"Are you quite certain that you have got the right consignment in this lorry?"

"Quite sure. I saw it put in myself."

"H'm! And are you glad that you've been promoted?"

Peters thought he detected a sneer in the voice.

"I think so, sir," he said, and immediately corrected himself. "I mean, of course, I am."

His companion smiled. "All right" he said. "You'd better make your way back to London. Have you still got the automatic with you?"

"Yes, sir. Shall I give you a hand with the package?"

"I'll have that taken out before you go. I wouldn't risk going back with that gun on you if I were you. If you're stopped it'll make things awkward. Hand it over to me. and I'll get rid of it for you."

Without demur, Peters handed over the weapon, glad to dispose of it.

"You were right about me, Peters," said the man with a curious, sinister change of voice. "I am the Dropper. Would you like to know why I promoted you?"

"Yes, sir, ' said Sammy, more frightened than ever.

"I'll tell you. I wanted some one to take the risk of bringing this package out of London, but I didn't want any member of my organisation to know where it was left. That was awkward. So I wondered which one of my employees I could best afford to lose. You were only a small-time thief, Peters, .but you could drive a van. I thought if you brought the package here I could work on the policy that dead men tell no tales. Your destination will die with you."

"What d'you mean?" started Sammy, sick, a lump filling his throat.

"I mean just that," commented the Dropper, and his trigger-finger flexed. The gun spoke. Sammy groaned slightly and pitched forward over the wheel a bullet lodged in his heart.

Sammy Peters, small-time thief, had ceased to live. The Dropper placed the automatic in the right hand of the corpse.

4: Mission of Death

NINE men sat around a table at New Scotland Yard. They were the commissioner, an assistant-commissioner, two chief-constables and detective-superintendents representing the Central north, east, west, and south districts of the metropolis.

"I'm certain," said Chief-constable Maling, "that you can't leave this job to a divisional detective-inspector. It isn't a local job. You'll find tentacles from that case spreading over most of Britain. I'm certain the Dropper arranged it, and he's a job for the Yard— and no easy job, then. We've lost four men through him already."

"The newspapers are screaming about the Dropper, and the public are beginning to wonder what they're paying a police force for," said the commissioner wearily. "If we don't break this man, he'll break us. That's certain."

The men looked at one another gloomily. Four hours before they had learned of the murder of Captain Osling, of the Christina. Since then they had discovered that a Rubens picture, valued at Munich as worth £30,000, had been stolen from the ship. They knew that the man on the middle watch was missing— whether associated with the crooks or murdered they did not know. And that was all.

It was true that a divisional detective at Limehouse had had an inquiry put through about a man named Samuel Peters. It seemed that he had committed suicide under odd circumstances in the garage of an empty house near Maidstone. He had been found sitting in the seat of an empty commercial vehicle which had been stolen on the previous evening from Covent Garden. The man was a small-time "van-dragger," his own fingerprints were on the gun, and on the previous evening he had been "given the air" by his girl friend. It was, so said the police, an open and-shut case of suicide, not worth any further inquiry— particularly when they were engaged on a murder case of first importance.

"The trouble is," said Chief Constable Conway, "that the Dropper is as hard to find as any man we've known. He's got a twisted genius for organisation, a gift for hiding behind the folks who work for him, and more than a faculty for frightening them. Every time we find some man connected with him the job's hopeless. They're so tight that you couldn't open them with a dynamite charge. They'd rather take the trip to Dartmoor than open their mouths. The Dropper has taught them that you can come back from the Moor, but you can't come back to this earth if you've squealed on him."

"But something has got to be done." said the commissioner.

"Naturally," said the assistant, "the inquiries into this murder will continue in the ordinary way, but I'm certain the Dropper did not commit the murder himself. That means that if the investigation is successful we will only collect a few dumb men, who dare not point their finger at the Dropper— even if they know him, which I doubt."

"Wouldn't it be possible to start some man working on the inside?" asked the commissioner. "I mean, a sort of under-cover man."

Superintendent Walkley stared at his chief and shivered. No one spoke. The commissioner's suggestion was not meeting with any enthusiasm. It was not that the men were nervous. They would not have risen from a beat to their positions at he Yard if their yellow streak had been the width of a pin. But they knew more about the Dropper than did their chief.

"Trouble is," said Chief Constable Conway, "that you could not give that job to any of the higher officers at the Yard. Every one must be very well known to a man like the Dropper. And it's too big a task, and too dangerous, for any young officer to take on."

"I can't think that is so," said the commissioner. "Why not run through your men, talk to some of them, and see whether there is one smart enough and with enough personal courage to do it?"

When the conference eventually broke up they had made no further progress. The practical men hadn't expected that they would. They knew already how many hours had been spent, how many risks had been taken, how many hundreds had been interviewed in that will o' the wisp quest for the mysterious man who called himself the Dropper.

Shortly before lunch Chief Constable Maling was walking along a corridor to his office in the Yard when a man called to him.

"Sir, could I have a moment with you?"

"Certainly, Sanderson, what is it?"

Maling looked at the young man curiously. Somewhere he had a fund of affection for Detective Inspector Sanderson. He admired the poise, the smart, powerful figure, the, the deep-set blue eyes, small mouth, resolute jaw. He looked at the well-cut, dark grey suit. Others at the Yard thought Sanderson too much of a dandy to make a good "split". But that was not the view of those who knew his record.

"I brought in Snide Collins for that job along at Holborn. He's come clean, and the case is all open and shut. But I've got an idea that he was working for the Dropper."

"And what are you going to do about that, Sanderson?"

"Shall I try to make him come through with the goods?"

Maling smiled sympathetically, and patted Sanderson's shoulder.

"Take on that job when you've stopped the Thames flowing. You'll never get one of the Dropper's men to squeal. They live if they don't and they die if they do."

Sanderson shrugged his wide shoulders, and the chief constable started to walk away. Suddenly he stopped and wheeled round. The inspector was walking along the corridor.

"Sanderson." called Maling. "I want you to see me in my office for a few minutes."

"When, sir?"

"Now. Follow me."

Maling closed the door cautiously when they reached his room, and beckoned to a chair.

"Sanderson," he said, "we had a long talk at our meeting this morning about the Dropper, and we all agreed that we'd never catch him by using ordinary methods. I don't want to talk about the time when you left the Yard, but I know that before you were reinstated you worked on your own as a sort of undercover man. That's when you caught Lees. Have you got enough confidence in yourself to imagine that you could try your hand along the same line with the Dropper's mob?"

Sanderson grinned, showing a spread of white, even teeth. He was about to reply when Maling raised a restraining hand.

"Wait one moment. You'd be running with a crowd of murderers, and you could get no support from the Yard. That would be impossible. If you took that job you'd work as a lone detective with every hand against you. You'd start with none of the advantages and all the disadvantages. Your rank wouldn't count — because it wouldn't exist. What d'you say?"

Detective Inspector Sanderson did not hesitate for a second. "Thanks very much, chief." he said. "That job is just my handwriting."

"I don't feel very comfortable about landing you into it. but I can't think of anyone else. I'll arrange for you to make an inquiry for us into those insurance ramps at Hammersmith. That will give yon at least a week in which to look around."

"What's the business at Hammersmith, sir?"

Maling rose to his feet and winked. "

"I won't tell anyone at the Yard what you're doing. As a matter of fact. I've finished the Hammersmith job myself The point is this— that since we don't know the identity of the Dropper, it might— although that's almost impossible— be someone at the Yard. We'll take no risks. Remember that the secret lies between us two. I'll stay dumb about it. and if you start talking— well, you might as well shoot yourself today, before someone does it for you. Goodbye— and good luck."

They shook hands in silence.

5: Find The Lady!

SANDERSON sat in a restaurant reading the evening paper. Twice his keen eyes scanned the story' of the murder, and each time his gaze paused to rest on the final paragraph:

"The police believe they have received information which may lead them to discover how the painting was removed after being stolen from the Christina. A night watchman from the Silvertown district has made a statement with regard to a vehicle which he saw at an early hour this morning. The police attach great importance to this information, and inquiries are proceeding."

Each time after he had read the paragraph he turned to the centre page on which was reported the story of Sammy Peters' tragic death. In that report two paragraphs impressed him The first announced barely that the deceased was found at the driving seat of a stolen Morris Commercial The second, after stating that the dead man was well known in the East End. followed with the statement:

"Miss Elsie Meers, an attractive blonde, of 67 Culbert Street. Stepney, told an Evening Post reporter that she was last with Peters yesterday evening in Limehouse Causeway. He then seemed a little distressed She was not engaged to him, and it was untrue that he might have taken his life following upon a lovers' quarrel."

The more Sanderson read both reports the more slowly he consumed his coffee. Peters lived in Limehouse— he left his girl in the Causeway— a vehicle was seen in the early hours at Silvertown— Peters was found dead at the wheel of a commercial lorry. He collected his bill and walked out. The chance seemed remote, very remote. But a dim lead was than nothing at all. When playing a hand against a man like the Dropper, chances had to be taken, and a blind gamble must be tried.

Sanderson strolled into a firm of ready-made tailors in the Strand, tried hard to impress upon the salesman that he did not want an expensive suit, that he did not want one of similar cut to the one he wore. The salesman stared at him with some small contempt; he had no room for men of little taste, and his dissatisfaction was complete when the customer walked out with a blue suit, pin-striped, possessed of "lemonade bottle" shoulders and a high waistline.

Thereafter the Yard man purchased a blue shirt and collar, a black tie, a cheap tie-pin; a pair of black socks, and patent leather shoes with, "winkle-picker" toes. A hard hat completed the outfit.

An hour later his original clothes were in the cloak room at Charing Cross Station, and Sanderson was bound for the East End. As the train rattled on he looked at his reflection in the dark window and smiled. His appearance was certainly curiously changed by his amazing rig-out.

He alighted at Stepney, inquired the way, and sauntered along in the direction of Culbert Street. He found that the street was short, the houses all the same, the road narrow. As he passed No. 67 he glanced idly at the window. His heart missed a jump. The luck was with him. In the window was a small printed card— "Apartments."

Sanderson walked over to the door, knocked, and waited for a couple of minutes without getting any response. Again he knocked. Suddenly the door; swung back and he was faced by a tall, scraggy woman, with a pale face and an angry expression.

"I don't want any more newspapermen hanging round here," she said, and immediately began to close the door.

Sanderson placed his hand on it and prevented it closing. "It's all right," he said. "I'm no newspaperman. Do I look like one? If you don't want people to stay at your house, why the devil do you put that sign in the window?"

She softened with express speed, pulled back the door, and waved the way into a narrow passage.

"I'm sorry, sir. I've been pestered all day by them."

Sanderson elevated his eyebrows, appeared tremendously surprised.

"Really? What on earth is the matter, then? Any trouble?"

"No, no. no," said the woman quickly, visualising a vanishing client. "My daughter knew a man who committed suicide, and they've been trying to pester her about him. They were at her all dinner-time."

"Poor girl. That's too bad. May I look at the rooms you have?"

The woman led him round. The exhibition did not last long. There was a room to let at the front, another at the back. The difference between them in price was three shillings. Sanderson plumped for the front room, and paid his week's rent of twelve shillings in advance, explaining that he would not be wanting any meals. For ten minutes they talked. When occasion warranted. Sandy was a convincing and most sympathetic talker.

At ten minutes past six he saw a pretty blonde pass under the street-lamp opposite and cross the road to the house.. Elsie had not been in the kitchen more than five minutes before she had .heard her mother lyricising the appearance and virtues of the new boarder. Elsie could transfer her interests as speedily as she changed her emotions. Although Sammy had not long been dead, she considered that grief had had its fair share of her young life. She acted on the time-honoured phrase: "The king is dead: long live the king!"

That was why Sanderson, descending the stairs shortly before seven, had the good fortune to meet her in the hall. Elsie simulated surprise with some ability. She had not been to the cinema three times a week for nothing.

"Are you Miss Meers?" asked the Yard man. "I'm the new boarder."

Elsie, eyeing him. came to the conclusion that he was good to look at— the sort of man you could lead alone Commercial Road with some sensation of pride. They commenced to talk. She found him a facile talker, and a sympathetic listener.

Sanderson was a fast worker. At half-past seven they were heading for a cinema. At half-past ten he knew all there was to be known about the unfortunate Sammy Peters, and; more particularly, about the man who stopped him in the Causeway.

They talked about the strangeness of the affair as they walked back to Culbert Street. She grew more and more, communicative.

"You say, Miss Meers, that he actually had the nerve to say he'd take you out one evening?" Sanderson appeared painfully astonished.

"What's your Christian name?" inquired the girl. She also was a fast worker.

"Eddie — and I'm tired of calling you Miss Meers. I'm going to call you Elsie. But did he really say that?"

"He did— and a big, powerful fellow, too." She clung closer to his arm, felt the swerve of muscle under the sleeve, and walked along wondering what would happen to the broken-nosed man if he met her with her new boyfriend.

"Don't you know anything about him— his name, or where he lives, or where he works?"

"Why do you want to know?" inquired the girl artlessly. Sanderson looked at her. The girl was as open as a barn door, as easy to read as a poster. He smiled at her.

"I'd just like to tell him where he gets off— that's all."

"Oh!" said Elsie. After that she continued the walk with her head well back and her feet mincing along the pavement. What it was to have a he-man as a boy-friend!

"Well? Where do I find him?"

"I don't know his name." she said eventually; "but I've seen him coming out of the Crown and Sceptre, at Poplar a few times. But I wouldn't go near there if I were you. He's terribly strong."

"I should worry What time have you seen him coming out?"

"Oh. sometimes at dinner-time, sometimes at night."

"Then you tell me exactly what he looks like, and I'll have a few words with him. Don't worry about that lout. I'll see him off."

Elsie looked at him. Sanderson knew the look. He had seen Janet Gaynor producing the same one for the benefit of Charles Farrell. But one thing he found to admire about the girl. She had a photographic memory. By the time she had described the man, Sanderson felt that he would remember him until Judgment Day.

Back at the house again, they stood in the darkened hall till eleven o'clock, whispering to each other about their enjoyable evening at the cinema. When they parted Elsie retired to bed with glorious visions of a full future. Sanderson also had visions of a full future— but not quite the same sort. He had brought in with him a late edition of an evening paper. Before undressing he sat on the edge of the bed, and looked through for fresh news of the Christina tragedy, or of Sammy Peters's sudden end.

He found something on the back page and smiled.

"There was a dramatic scene in the House of Commons this afternoon at question time," he read. "The circumstances of the murder on the Christina had been reused earlier, and the Home Secretary made a non-committal reply. Later, however, Mr Martin Cross (Ind., Streatham) asserted that the House was being misled by vague statements.

"He said that for nearly a year London had been terrorised by the criminal known as the Dropper, and that this callous murder is attributable to him. He then demanded a statement from the Home Secretary explaining why nothing is being done, and why this man has not been arrested.

"The Home Secretary's reply was that it would be prejudicial to the interests of justice to make any statement at this stage."

Sanderson read through to the end with a sardonic smile playing round his lips. He-was still grinning when he turned out the light and jumped into bed.

"Nothing being done." He muttered to himself, adding caustically: "Says them!"

Two minutes later he was soundly asleep.

In a back bedroom Elsie was involved in a dream which included wedding dresses, black eyes, Sanderson, Greta Garbo, and the late Sammy Peters.

6: Job Wanted

SANDERSON met Elsie on the following morning as she was leaving the house. He also was ready to make a move. Together they walked along toward Leman Street.

"Are you starting work?" she asked.

"I certainly am, Elsie. What d'you do for a living?"

"Work for a furrier's near Mark Lane Station. And you?"

"Me? Oh, I just travel in— in all sorts of books."

"Maybe you'll be in when get back tonight?"

"I certainly will, if I can finish my round by then. So long."

When they parted Sanderson strolled on until he readied a public telephone box. He dialled Whitehall 1212, asked for Chief Constable Maling, refused to give his name, and after two subordinates had made an attempt to speak to him Maling came on the wire.

"Is there any news, sir? You talked to me yesterday. Remember?"

"Certainly I remember you, Wilson. The only news is that the boss has recruited nearly every one here on the job. And at your end―"

"Can't say. I may get a break. Good morning, chief."

Sanderson ate breakfast in a small cafe, and then walked toward Poplar, sauntering leisurely, killing time. Eventually he arrived at the Crown and Sceptre just as the doors opened. Even then he was the third to reach the counter in the saloon bar. A pert girl with closely waved hair, bowed lips, a retrousse nose, and a ring worth hundreds if it had been genuine, slid a glass -of beer across the counter.

"Hallo, Brighteyes!" said Sanderson. "How's trade?"

The girl stared at him insolently. She was not more than twenty-two, but behind that glance was a mature sense of judgment, an instinct for cunning beyond her years.

"Trade's rotten. So is the name you handed out. That'll be fourpence."

He paid the money and slid on to a high stool.

The barmaid did not move. She was still trying to place him.

"What's the trouble?" Sanderson asked. "Isn't my tie straight, or is it that you just don't like my face?"

"Does it matter?"

"Well. yes. I can straighten my tie, but I can't afford a plastic surgeon. Looks to me as though you don't like new customers round here."

"Any sort are better than none. Haven't seen you before, have I?"

"Surely! Didn't we meet in the enclosure at Ascot?"

"Was it you, then, selling boot laces along that, way?"

"Not me, lady. I was among the grande dames peddling face-lifts."

"Is that so!" snapped the girl, turning to face the mirror and pat her hair.

"It is. But listen! Listen! I'm looking for a man who uses this place. No, don't look so startled. I don't mean what you look as though you think I mean. Do I look so bad you've taken me for a split?"

The barmaid was quick to notice the sudden tone— from banter to questioning. She stared at Sanderson with more interest, but averted her glance to satisfy a clatter of glasses on the counter farther along the bar. Even while she pulled more beer, and later returned to the cash register, she cast occasional glances his way. When she returned she stood with her elbows on the bar, and her head cupped in the palms of her hands. Sanderson withstood the scrutiny without a tremor. His hand holding the glass was as steady as a monument.

"Who is this man you want to see?" she asked.

He gave. Elsie's description of the man with the broken nose.

"That's Mr MacMichael," she said. "He'll be along soon. Comes in every morning about this time. What d'you want him for?"

"Lady, compared with me the Sphinx is a loud-speaker. Still, what about having a spot of something with me?"

The girl poured out a drink, and Sanderson took another himself.

Half an hour afterward they were still bantering when the swing doors opened and before the Yard man could turn round the barmaid called:

"Mr Mac, there's a gentleman here wants to have a word with you."

Sanderson turned slowly to survey the newcomer, wondering which would be the best opening gambit. He saw a tall, broad-shouldered man, deep in the chest, thick in the neck, nose well broken, spatulate hands, small blue eyes, snarling lips, and square jaw. Mac didn't hesitate before walking across to the bar, but all the way his piggy eye's were set on Sanderson's face. It was an uncomfortable moment.

Sanderson slid off his chair and pushed out his hand.

"Howdy!" he said. 'I've been waiting for you. What's yours?"

"Who the hell are you? I don't know you." The man was arrogant and as he spoke he turned to the girl with a smirk as though pleased with his exhibition. Some of his confidence— but not much— ebbed when he noted that Sanderson still faced him with a steady, unperturbed glance.

"I didn't ask you to take some prussic acid at my expense. I merely said, 'What's yours?' "

Mac eyed the man from head to foot noted that he had an advantage of two inches in height, and a good two stone in weight and swelled his chest as be glared.

"Get out of my way, stranger," he snapped. "I don't drink with boys."

"And apparently," said Sanderson quietly, "you're not used to drinking with men. I came here to talk business with you."

Mac's neck grew like the chest of a pouter pigeon. Sanderson lit a cigarette and turned to the barmaid.

"Fill mine again, and yours if you want another."

Mac placed a great hand on Sanderson's shoulder and spun him round.

"Where I come from," he said menacingly, "folks like you just don't walk around. The world falls in on top of them, and then it's light-out!"

The Yard man placed his hands on his hips and smiled coldly.

"Is that so?" The words were slow and soft. "Listen, you may think you're the king of the bailiwick around here, but you're 16 stone of very little to me. Don't look so annoyed. I'm just telling you."

The girl behind the bar was gaping at them, her eyes starry with astonishment At every moment she expected to see the stranger soar through the air, and arrive on the pavement via the window.

"I'll take a bitter while I talk tor you," said Mac.

"That's the idea. A bitter, miss, please. Sit down, Mac. It costs no more." They sat facing each other, both cold-eyed, both waiting to see which way the jump would come.

Sanderson continued to smile.

"I hate the sight of your face," said Mac, "but I admire guts when I come across it― even if the man is a fool. What's the business?"

"I'll talk to you about that somewhere else. It's not exactly saloon bar business. I came here as a preliminary so that I could meet you. It seems a pity that you had to start by getting fresh with me."

"Eh?" Mac blinked his eyes unbelievingly. He thought he had misheard.

"You heard me." Sanderson raised his drink, and emptied some.

"Who the hell are you, anyway?" Mac was getting worried.

"Something above van-draggers, slang dippers, broadsmen, screwsmen, and that sort of thing. How's trade with you?" Mac replaced his drink on the counter, and stared curiously.

"You seem to have bought the book of words." he said. "What's your line— snow sweeping?"

Sanderson grinned, swallowed the insult, and rested his elbow on the bar. The girl walked to the other end to attend to customers. The Yard man bent forward and tapped Mac on the knee.

"Listen he whispered, "maybe I look dumb, but if you get that idea into your head you're getting off with both feet in the wrong place. Small-time stuff doesn't interest me. When I broke into town a certain party told me you knew your stuff. I came to see you because maybe I know a lot you've never even thought of. Follow me?"

Mac nodded seriously, and then noticed that the girl had returned to her place behind them. He nodded his head, slid forwards his glass.

"We'll be having two more of those." he said.

For twenty minutes they talked about everything but crime. Then Mac slid from his stool, and emptied his glass.

"We'll be going, eh. O.K. with you?"

"I'm with you." They walked through side streets for ten minutes before Mac opened the door of a small house tucked away at the end of an alley Sanderson followed Him into a small front room. It was well-furnished— too well-furnished for that type of property.

The Yard man sat down in a chair worth the rent of fee house for a couple of months. Mac pushed a whisky bottle and a siphon over to him.

"Help yourself, and then tell me about things."

"I'll take my own time; Mac. I reckon what I tell you goes no farther than this room, eh? If I thought you were a snout I'd see you off."

"That's a bit of a joke! Can you see me handing, stuff to the splits?"

"Just so long as we know where we are. Fact is, Mac. I'm on the run. I'm not going to give you my history from the cradle to the grave, and I'm not going to tell you what I'm wanted for. You'll have to let that ride. But I've just got off a warm spot in a tough place. I'll have to let a bit of water flow under the bridges before I can work again round my own bailiwick. All clear?"

"It's a story I've heard before." said Mac, noncommittally.

"But not from me. At any rate, that's the history so far. I landed down these parts on the run, and I didn't much care whether I worked on my lonesome or whether I weighed in with a crush but it seemed best to me that I should fall into, line with some of the boys, since I don't know my way around. That's sense, isn't it?"

"Sounds like it."

"So I thought.  Well yesterday I drifted around putting out feelers. The folks round here give me a pain in the neck. The first couple I contacted seemed to think that smash and grab was the high-water mark. The next man told me he worked with a partner as a dip. The fourth said he was working the deracs with the race mob. None of that was any good to me.

"I asked the last man if he knew anybody about these parts who might : have a better idea of going real stuff. He was a bit cautious about it, but after we'd had a few drinks together he told me I might find a man known as Mac who would have a talk to me if he fancied me.

"After that I put out a few more feelers till I found which pub you used. This bloke told me you were dangerous. It made me laugh. He gave me just the intro I wanted. All I want is heavy metal, and I don't mind taking the risks to get it. So I headed for the Crown and Sceptre. Seemed that my reception wasn't too good, but I'll forgive you for that Now. Mac. it's your turn. Make a start."

Obviously Mac had grown more impressed as the story proceeded.

"Who gave you my name?" he asked.

"Mac, would you employ me if I spilled people's names?"

"I get you. Maybe you're right. What's your best line?"

"Mostly sales, but I don't mind having a crack at anything so long as the dough is good."

"What's your name?"

"Did I hear you?" Sanderson sat back with mock astonishment. "As a matter of fact I'm the Wandering Jew, but if you call me Eddie Kell it'll be good enough for me. Suit you?"

"All right, Eddie. What part have you come from?"

"The North. You can take your pick of all the places up there."

"Are you on the run for anything really serious?"

"I call it serious, but from what I've seen of the men round here they'd call it a European War."

"H'm. Ever hurt anybody? Follow what I mean, Eddie?"

"I carry this in case I ever feel like being nasty."

Sanderson slipped a Browning automatic from his pocket, and laid it on the table. Mac stared hard, licked his lips, said nothing for a time.

"You, mean you really wouldn't mind using that if you had to?"

"I don't carry it so that I can stroke it from time to time."

"Where are you staying down here?"

"Search me. I told you I don't know the place. What's good?"

Mac rose and paced the room for a while. Then he sat down again, and stated at Sanderson across the table.

"If your story is straight you're the sort of man I want. If it's phoney you go to the cemetery in top gear. I can't tell you what I'll do till I've had a word with one or two folks. This is the position— I'll take you along to some digs right away where you'll be all right. Later today I'll come along and tell you how things stand. Drink up, and we'll be moving."

"This sounds like sweet music to me," said Sanderson, slipping the gun back into his pocket, and heading toward the door.

"Don't count your chickens. We're a tough crowd."

"I'll be glad to meet 'em. Sounds like really good company."

They walked out together.

7: First Commission

SANDERSON was lying on a bed in a squalid back bedroom when the owner of the house entered to inform him that Mac would be along in an hour's time. It was then three in the afternoon.

The Yard man nodded casually and surveyed his landlord. So far he hadn't found out exactly where the house was, but he judged that it lay somewhere between Bow and Poplar. Mac had made all the arrangements with the landlord and had obviously told the man to remain dumb. Except for one moment when he had been brought some sandwiches, Sanderson had neither seen nor heard anything in the house. He had thought of looking round the premises, but abandoned the idea: Mac was no fool, and he would certainly lay a guard on Sanderson— just in case of accidents.

The landlord still stared at him.

"What's the matter, mate?" asked the Yard man. "Have I changed colour since you last saw me?"

"No. I was just wondering where I'd seen you before."

Sanderson's heart performed a hop, skip and jump, but the landlord saw no trace of surprise or anxiety on his face.

"Don't remember your face, mate. if I'd lamped it once I wouldn't have forgotten it in a hurry. Maybe you're mixing me up with another bloke. Send somebody out for a packet of fags will you?"

He threw the man half a crown, and was glad to see him depart.

It would be throwing a spanner into the works if the owner of the place told Mac that he recognised the new boarder. Even the thought of such an eventuality made Sanderson slip his hand into his pocket and give his gun a reassuring pat. Mac arrived, looking remarkably cheerful; his greeting was almost effusive. Sanderson eyed him warily, wondered whether this was a prelude to a storm. But Mac took one of his cigarettes and settled down on the edge of the bed.

"Looks as though you've got a break," he said. "I've had a word with a man who counts, and he's had a talk farther up the line. I told 'em all I knew about you, all you'd told me, and you're one of the firm. What d'you know about that?"

"Thanks, Mac." Sanderson sent a spiral of smoke toward the ceiling. "When do we get some action! I'm tired of parking my body on this bed. What's the first job?"

"Blimey, you believe in making an early start, don't you?"

"I don't expect to draw dough for miking round here, sleeping, smoking and knocking back beer. When do we make a start?"

"Listen. There's something in the wind for tonight, but I haven't got the goods on the job yet. I'll know about eight o'clock. As soon as I get the 'Off' you'll hear about it. That's honest."

"Let's take a walk, Mac. This place is giving me the pip. I'd make a darn bad invalid. Let's go to the flickers. They might have something exciting on there. That'd be a change for a bloke on the run."

"You're a rummy cove," said Mac; but that's O.K. with me."

At half-past seven they emerged from the cinema. After walking along the road for a while, Mac stopped outside a public phone box.

"I've gotta give a ring, mate. Stand tight."

Sanderson waited outside the box, fretting and anxious, wondering what number was being called. In less than a couple of minutes Mac came out with a smile.

"We've got a job," he said. "I'll call a cab and tell you all about it. This is a doings after your own heart— the sort of thing you've never done before in your life."

Mac collected a stray taxi, and they piled in, ordering the driver to stop at Ludgate Circus. On the way, Mac seized his new recruit by the arm and explained matters.

"Ever done a snatch, Eddie— a real kidnapping job?"

"A few," said Sanderson casually. "They're nothing new."

Mac sat back in the cab and chuckled.

"This one is." he said. "Have you ever snatched a lunatic from a private mental home?"

"Can't say I have. That one's new on me. What's the lay?"

"Don't know for certain. We'll be meeting one of the bosses in a while, and he'll hand out all the dope on the job. Be patient."

"Where is the mental home? What's the snatch? A millionaire, eh?"

"Lay low till we hear the goods. We'll dump the cab at the Circus, and I'll take you along to meet one of my bosses. Smoke?"

"Thanks." Sanderson took a cigarette and lit it. "How many handed will we be working—any idea?"

"Nope. My crowd never shout about the works till we've got the decks clear."

They had a drink together in Fleet Street, and Mac led the way towards the Strand, pausing before the Law Courts to find the name of a labyrinthine passage before he took his companion by the arm and led him into the semi-darkness. At the end of the narrow entry a man was waiting for them. He was tall and broad, and a reefer overcoat swathed him, its deep collar encircling the lower part of his face. As they walked under a bracket-lamp, suspended over a door, the man looked at them and immediately turned to walk away. They followed him a few yards until he opened a door and mounted a flight of rickety stairs. Mac lunged after him, Sanderson close on his heels. The tall man turned on the light in a sparsely furnished office, waited until they sat down, and then locked the door. Sanderson held his right hand in his pocket. His index finger was twirled round the trigger of his gun, and he eyed the man warily, but could not remember having seen him before.

The stranger made no attempt to lower his coat-collar, and Sanderson saw nothing beyond a pair of staring brown eyes— eyes that scrutinised him with deadly care.

"This our new friend?" the newcomer asked Mac. His voice was low and well modulated, the voice of an educated man.

"That's so," replied Mac.

"Been in this racket for long?" This to Sanderson.

"About eight years. You been in for long?"

"Never talk to your boss unless you're asked to. Mac tells me that you don't mind taking a risk or two. Is that so?"

"Should be. Try me and see for yourself!"

"That's exactly what I'm going to do. Open the flaps of your ears and listen to me; and that goes for both of you. Two weeks ago a man wanted to be without the pleasure of his wife's company for a matter of three months. She was an eccentric, but far from being mad. How he arranged matters doesn't concern us. But the fact remains that he placed her in a private mental home in Beaumont Street— apparently as a case for observation. "In her enforced absence he has left for the South of France with another woman. If his wife knew about this excursion on his part she'd certainly sue for a divorce, and she'd undoubtedly get one. That would not suit him. He's a millionaire, but he's terribly sensitive about the purity of his reputation. Sounds unusual, but it's true. If we get his wife out of that nursing home we can hold a threat over him that would mean heavy money. In the first place we could threaten to tell his wife where he was and whom he was with. In the second place we could prove that he faked affairs to place her in that mental home.

"That's all clear. In any event, getting money from the man has got nothing to do with either of you. We're only employing you to get her out of that home. She's in a private room, No. 5, on the second floor. Beyond that we can tell you nothing, except that the mental home is at 56A Beaumont Street. How you get her out of there we leave to you. It only remains for me to say that she must be delivered to us at 459 Essex Road, between Islington and Highbury, at any time between midnight and two o'clock. That's all, but we'll meet again."

The man rose from his seat, unlocked the door and ushered them out.

8: Snatch Racket

SANDERSON and Mac strolled past the imposing pile of Broadcasting House as clocks were pealing out midnight. For three hours they had sat making arrangements. Now they were ready for action. Sanderson was thinking more about Essex Road than he was about Beaumont Street It seemed unduly optimistic to think that on his first night with the crowd he should meet the Dropper. But accidents do happen!

They turned off Portland Place into Devonshire Street walking slowly. Both were silent. Now that risks faced them, Mac had lost some of his ebulliency and Sanderson had too much to think about. At last they turned into Beaumont Street pausing at the corner for a final word. "Sure it wouldn't be better to try a climb from the back?" asked Mac.

"Still sure. The backs of these houses are too tricky, by a mile. We'll bowl straight in and see what happens. Funny that your boss didn't put more men on this job."

"Seems so to me. It doesn't look like an easy two-handed business."

"Well, we've burnt our boats. Let's get it over. I only hope that bloke will turn up in time with the ambulance."

"Don't worry about that. You can rely on Percy."

The street was deserted as they walked toward the house. Both took a final look along the pavements before mounting the steps. Then Mac twisted round to stare at his companion.

"I'll leave you to do your stuff, mate. This is a try-out for you."

Sanderson nodded and pressed the bell at the side of the door. As soon as the ring echoed through the house he slipped a gun from his pocket and moved nearer to the door. Mac stood behind him. It seemed an intolerable time before they heard footsteps in the hall, waited while chain bolts were withdrawn. Then the door opened, and a sleepy-looking man peered at them through the darkness. The Yard man prodded his gun into the man's ribs.

"I've got a gun on you," he snapped. "Keep your mouth shut and maybe I won't shoot. Step back slowly into the hall." The man hesitated for a second, and the muzzle prodded him again Then he moved back, slowly and uncertainly. Mac followed and closed the door. The hall was barely illuminated with a dim light. The night porter— as they thought him to be— was quivering as though afflicted with a palsy. Twice he opened his mouth to speak, and each time no words came through his trembling lips.

"I want you to lead me to Room 5 on the second floor," whispered Sanderson; "and if you raise any noise I'll drill you. If we pass any person on the way try to look casual. Don't forget that though you can't see the gun, I'll have it in my pocket, and the business end of it will be pointing at you. Start moving, and remember that lead poisoning is a terrible thing to die from. Don't turn any lights up as you go. We can both see you all right."

Without a word the man started toward the foot of the stairs. For some Indefinable reason Sanderson grew thoroughly uneasy. The ascent was slow, and the Yard man prodded his guide, ordered him to "put a jerk into it." The man increased his pace without any comment.

For a short spell they paused on the first landing, listening for sound of movement. The house was quiet, too quiet to be comfortable. A dim electric lamp shone at the far end of the passage. They paced up the second flight of stairs, then they stopped. A nurse sat on a chair at the far end of the corridor. She was reading a novel under the yellow glow of a night light. Sanderson touched the guide, placed his finger to his lips and signalled for a stop. Then he turned to Mac.

"Look after her," he whispered. Mac grasped his gun and pressed past Sanderson, walking along the corridor silently. He was not more than four yards from the girl when she looked up. Her lips parted as she stared, and Mac waved the gun menacingly.

"If you scream I'll plug you. Sit still and stay quiet."

The nurse cowered back in her chair, her body quivering. Sanderson turned to the night porter.

"Show me Room 5," he growled. The man pointed to the door, end Sanderson pushed him along toward the nurse. "Look after both of them for a few seconds, Mac, while I do the necessary. Nurse, give me the key to Room 5. Hurry up."

The trembling girl offered no resistance, detaching a bunch of keys from the chain fastened to her belt. Silently she separated a key and held it towards Sanderson. The Yard man immediately retraced his steps along the corridor and turned the key in the lock. The room inside was dark, inkily dark, and he groped around with his hand for some time before he could find the light switch. Instantly he took a quick look.

The room was small, almost uncomfortably clean, and barely furnished. Apart from the single bed, the room held one chair, a small wardrobe and a cabinet. The floor was polished. A young woman lay in the bed, unawakened by the sudden intrusion. Sanderson looked at her closely. She had a singular beauty— a pale, oval face, features of astonishing regularity and raven hair. On the door of the wardrobe hung a dressing-gown. Sanderson took it down and advanced to the side of the bed. Then he bent over and touched the girl's shoulder. The movement was repeated before she moved. Her eyelids raised slowly, drowsily, to reveal eyes of cinnamon brown. It seemed some seconds before she appreciated what was happening.

Abruptly she sat erect. Sanderson swallowed hard. Jobs like this were not much in his line.

"Don't be alarmed," he said. "I've come to take you to some friends. Slip this dressing-gown on and I'll take you away."

"Who are you?" she whimpered. "Just a friend — that's all. Come along." He threw the dressing-gown on the bed and walked over to the door. The girl waited for a while, staring blankly round the room. Then she slid from the bed and wrapped the gown round her, pausing to place a pair of mules on her feet.

Sanderson took her by the arm, walked into the corridor. Mac was standing over the porter and the nurse.

"Stay where you are until I'm clear out of here, and then follow me. Don't leave those people until I'm clear of the house."

Mac nodded, and the Yard man walked along to the far end of the corridor, drawing back a curtain from the window to peer into the street. An ambulance was waiting outside, and he hurried down the stairs. The girl paced at his side like a somnambulist. Sanderson turned to look at her. He was puzzled. At no time had she offered the slightest remonstrance, the most trivial resistance. Yet she did not give the impression that her mind was unbalanced.

He swung back the front door and hurried across the pavement. His brain was working with disconcerting speed. By now he was certain that his earlier fears were not misplaced. Everything had happened with too much ease. The driver of the ambulance touched his cap, and the Yard man walked round to the rear doors. As he placed his. hand on the handle he spoke to the girl:

"Don't be nervous. You'll soon be all right."

She looked at him dumbly. It seemed that her face was expressionless.

The Yard man had more worries than one. He knew that whatever he was leading the girl into, he would have to lead her out of it again, and that, most certainly, would not be as easy as this "snatch" from the nursing home. The doors drew hack, and he pressed the girl forward. With the action of an automaton she stepped inside. There were no lights. The Yard man climbed in after her, then turned to discover whether Mac was leaving the house. He bit his lip, felt colour draining from his face and then raised his hands slowly above his head. Something hard pressed into his ribs.

"Hoist those hands, friends," said some one unseen. "I've got the drop on you."

A hand groped in his pocket and pulled out his gun.

The engine purred into life. The ambulance started to move away.

9: Death Sentence

SANDERSON, lurching in the darkness as the ambulance turned a corner, felt the girl bump against him. Suddenly a hand pushed him, and he fell back on to a stretcher bed. The girl sat beside him, still silent.

"Looks to me though you're standing on a tough spot," said the unseen man.

"Maybe you're right," remarked the Yard man, recovering from the shock. "What's the layout of this business?"

"You're going for a ride, my friend. So's the lady. Suit you?"

"Can do. Who're you working for?"

"The Dropper."

"Sounds funny. I thought I was. D'you know that Mac was left?"

"Yeah. He can look after himself. Don't think that because you can't feel this gun you're not covered. I know to an inch where you are. Sit tight or you'll take a stomach full."

The Yard man was growing more composed. He had expected that trouble would arise— now he had walked into it. He pressed the girl's arm, anxious to console her, to protect her from fright. He might as well have offered solace to Cleopatra's Needle.

Five minutes went by without a word being said. Sanderson lost- count of the number of corners they had turned, had no idea which direction they were taking.

"Where are we making for?" he asked.

The man facing him laughed.

"The driver knows," was the laconic reply.

"So long as some one knows it's O.K. with me. Mind if I smoke?"

"I certainly do. You're striking no matches in this ambulance."

"You don't sound as though you're very proud of your face."

"Stow that!" snapped the man. "If I told the Dropper that you got fresh on the way and I had to plug you he wouldn't worry."

"Is that so? Sounds as though I've got a funny sort of boss."

"You've said it. Keep your mouth closed for the rest of the trip. Maybe you'll be wanting the use of your tongue later."

"Are you feeling all right?" Sanderson asked the girl.

She made no movement, offered no response. Again there was silence.

For another twenty minutes they passed through the silent streets. It seemed to Sanderson that they must be well clear of the suburbs. He had tried to work things out, had abandoned the effort. Everything was too crazy, too contradictory, to fit into any scheme.

He felt the ambulance shudder a trifle as the brakes were applied. Then the vehicle stopped. Sanderson felt some garment fall across his knees, and the stranger snapped out an instruction:

"That's a lady's coat Help the girl to put it on."

The Yard man was not reluctant. He had felt the girl shiver by his side as the journey was nearing its end. She rose impassively and thrust her arms into the coat,

"I'm going to step out first" said their captor, "and I'm getting out backwards so that I can hold the drop on you. The girl comes out next. Then you. Follow the driver when you get out I'll walk behind you. And no noise, mind, get going

The doors opened and Sanderson saw the black outline of the man. He pushed the girl forward, cursing the man for asking her to go first. It blocked any action by making the girl a bullet shield. The stranger was certainly no fool. They stood on the pavement in gloomy darkness. At their side a huge building towered towards a mackerel sky. The driver started forward immediately, and Sanderson led the girl after him, conscious all the time that a gun was pressing under his left shoulder blade.

They groped their way through a narrow alley, flanked on both sides by high walls. A biting wind cut into them. The girl trembled with cold. At the end of the alley the driver wheeled round to the left and soon turned again. He held out a hand as though giving a traffic signal, then stopped. Pulling a key from his pocket, he opened a door, and the Yard man found himself in pitch darkness.

The driver waited for them, gripped each by the aim and moved forward again. Sanderson tried to take his bearings without success. They twisted and turned round sharp-angled passages, walked down slopes, through rooms, until the Yard man abandoned any hope of keeping track of their direction. At last the driver produced another key and unlocked a door leading to a scantily-lit room. It was a long cellar, the floor flagged with stone, the walls green with age and dampness. In the centre was a long table. The room was untenanted. , Sanderson heard the lock snap behind them, turned to scrutinise his captors in the faint light. In the interval between opening the door and locking it both had slipped black crepe masks over their faces.

"Sit down," said the man with the gun, "and make yourselves at home."

The Yard man looked round the cellar and grinned mirthlessly.

"Comfort isn't your strong point," he said. "D'you mind if I slip my coat off and hand it to this girl? She needs it."

"Carry on. Sir Galahad," sneered the man. "I reckon you're getting too hot under the collar to need an overcoat."

"Maybe," said Sanderson, slipping off his coat. "I reckon it's better to be hot under the collar than cold inside your shoes."

The girl looked round the room dreamily, donned the coat without any acknowledgment and sat down on the edge of the table. The three men walked over and joined her. Curiosity tempted the detective to look again at the girl. He found himself staring at her left hand, and saw immediately that she wore no wedding-ring...

Sanderson whistled softly, lounged m a chair and smiled.

"Suppose you don't mind me smoking now, eh?"

"All right," said the driver. "But I'll get the smokes from your pocket. We don't want you Dulling any fast stuff."

"Getting nervy?" asked the detective. "O.K. Help yourself."

He pulled at his cigarette, watched the blue clouds mounting to the low ceiling, and examined the room closely. "How much longer do I have to wait here? he asked. "I've finished my job for tonight, and a spot of bed seems indicated."

"You'll stay here until the Dropper has had a word with you."

Sanderson almost dropped his cigarette. It seemed too good to be true that he could meet the Dropper.

"And when is that likely to happen?" he inquired easily.

"Any time now."

The man stopped speaking. Every one in the room— with the exception of the girl— turned to face the far wall. It was from that direction that they had heard a sharp click, as though a lock had been turned. But there were neither doors -nor windows there. Sanderson thought he had been deluded, turned his back on the wall and replaced the cigarette in his mouth. But he drew no smoke. A voice behind him caused him to whip round. He blinked his eyes. There was no speaker, but he heard the words.

"So you brought the lady here quite successfully?"

Sanderson made no effort to reply. He was waiting to see whether either of his gaolers would speak. Apparently they were waiting for him. "Step this way. you. Come nearer to the wall. I want to talk to you."

The detective stood up and sauntered leisurely across the floor. His keen eyes were scanning the wall. He was not more than five feet away when he solved the secret. A sudden draught had arisen outside the cellar, and a small square on the wall wavered in the breeze. A block had been taken out and the aperture had been covered with a painted canvas coloured to resemble the stonework, fashioned after the style of a theatrical back-cloth.

"I want to learn something about you, young man. I suppose you know who is talking?"

"I imagine," said the Yard man slowly, "that you are my employer."

"You are right. I am the "Dropper." The speaker paused as though to study the effect created by his announcement. He must have been very disappointed. Sanderson received the statement without turning a hair.

"That's what I thought," Sanderson replied, deciding to take the offensive. "And there are one or two things I want to ask you. You gave me a job to do. I have done it Why have me brought here as though I've done wrong? This is my first try-out with you, and I don't think you're treating me any too well. What's the trouble?"

"People don't ask me questions. They just reply to mine. Why were you so anxious to join my crowd?"

"It's pretty obvious, isn't it? I was on the run and wanted a job."

"Maybe you've got a job— one that you didn't apply for. How did you establish contact with Mac?"

"He's explained all that already. Why bring it up again?"

"I want to hear the version from you."

"Very well. Here are the facts." And then for two minutes Sanderson recited his story. Afterward there was silence for a short spell. The detective grew uncomfortable.

"You tell the tale very well." said the Dropper; "but it doesn't ring true to me. Have you stopped to think what would happen to you if I thought you were working as an undercover man?"

Sanderson felt his mouth growing dry.

"I certainly haven't. It doesn't concern me. What time do I go?"

"Not for a while. I want to give you another chance to show that you're genuine. I'll send you on a job in such a way that you either come back completely in my confidence — or you don't come back at all. How will that suit you?"

Sanderson knew that hesitation would be fatal. He plunged: "So long as the job's not impossible the arrangement suits me."

"It is just as well that you say that. Otherwise I would have shot you now. Before we talk about details, tell me  did you have any trouble along at the nursing home?"

"None. It was too easy to be uncomfortable. I left Mac there."

"I intended that you should. Very well. That part of your work is finished. If you do your next job as well I'll see that you're paid accordingly. In ten minutes' time I am leaving here. Half an hour later I want you to leave with two men. You'll meet them after I've gone. A private car will drive the three of you to Westbourne Terrace. You must be there by three o'clock.

"You will have a loaded gun in your hand. So will the other men. You will be looking through the window at the front door of 345 Westbourne Terrace. At about that time a man will leave that house. Immediately the car will drive alongside the pavement, taking you within a few feet of the man. You will empty your gun into him. Is that quite clear?"

"Quite clear," said Sanderson, licking dry lips. "The other two men," said Dropper, "will point their guns at you. If you don't give that man the works— they'll hand it to you!"

"Sounds as though I'm in a tight spot. Who is the man I've got to rub out? I might as well know."

The Dropper laughed and announced softly:

"The man you have to murder is really quite well known. It is Chief Constable Maling, of New Scotland Yard!"

Sanderson collected his scattered nerves, clenched his fists and made no reply. There was a sound of movement from behind the wall. The Dropper had gone.

10: High Stake Gamble

THE detective walked slowly back to the table, both hands plunged in his trouser pockets. He felt like a rabbit in a snare. Did the Dropper know him? If not, why choose a newcomer for such a dangerous job? Why send two professional murderers to ensure the commission of a crime which they could do themselves?

"Feeling happy now?" asked the man with the gun sarcastically.

"Perfectly. How's the girl?"

The girl looked at him listlessly. Her face was even more pallid than it had been before, and there was a curiously bemused expression playing round her eyes. She smiled pathetically. Sanderson saw the gleam of white, even teeth, and swore beneath his breath. If he went out on this job what would happen to the girl? Perhaps in his absence she would be moved to some unknown spot. But that, he reflected, would not matter very much, since he was even then unaware of his whereabouts.

"You heard the Dropper say that I've got to have a gun," he said. "Hand me that one of mine. I'd rather handle something I'm used to."

"You'll get that when the other boys arrive to escort you. Until then, have another smoke and talk to your girlfriend."

The men seemed less belligerent. The Yard man smoked and thought. It seemed impossible to find a way out of the impasse. If he refused to visit Westbourne Terrace he would be shot. There was no doubt about that. But if he left the cellar the girl would be unprotected, and Chief Constable Maling would certainly be put on the spot. He gave up the struggle and waited to see what would happen next Sanderson had been born with great faith in lucky breaks. He needed them badly.

He was sitting on the edge of the table, swinging his legs, when the door opened and two men walked in. One was Mac, the other was a stranger. He was small, ferret-faced, with eyes that twitched a trifle. The Yard man diagnosed the case instantly. A "coke" sniffer. It was like the Dropper to elevate a man with "snow" and then send him on a murder job.

"Hallo," the detective greeted Mac. "What happened to you? Why didn't you tell me I'd got to come here on my solitary?"

Mac grinned and waved a warning finger.

"Not this child, Eddie. I'm very particular about seeing that my body doesn't get ventilated. Looks as though we've got a busy night. Meet one of the crowd— Albino Cassell."

The little man shuffled forward, gripped Sanderson with a cold, damp hand and muttered something unintelligible. The detective
looked towards Mac and shrugged his shoulders expressively.

"How's the little girl keeping?" asked Mac, swaggering over to her. Sanderson stood tense before he moved. Then he placed a hand on Mac's aim and stopped him.

"Cut that out, Mac. Dames don't mix with murder. When I walk out on a real man's job I don't want to sit between a bloke with women on the brain and a lad who sniffs everything except pepper."

Albino stepped forward angrily.

"Are you trying to tell me―" he commenced. He got no further.

"Brother," commented the Yard man, "I'm just telling you to be a. good boy. Don't start any rough stuff. You've got a busy night, little man. Mac, hand me my gun. I feel sort of cold without it. That boy near the door borrowed it from me."

Mac took the gun and passed it to Sanderson. The detective examined it and noted with relief it had a full magazine. It would not have surprised him if they had sent him on the ride with an unloaded weapon. He slipped the weapon into his pocket and took another look at the girl, noticing that she seemed to be less dazed. In her eyes before he had only read a story of apathy and numbness. Now expressions of fear were fleeting across them, and she shivered as she pulled her clothes nearer to her.

"Have you got another spare gun, Mac?" he asked. "This one of mine carries a release to spring the bullets in a stream. If I use that and I miss with the first pull the bloke will have gone before I can have a second crack. Let's have one for the reserve fund."

Mac looked at him with questioning suspicion. Then he draw a .45 from his pocket and passed it over.

"I wouldn't advise you to miss with your own gun," he said softly, "because I won't miss you."

"Thanks. What arrangements have you made? Since I've got to do the rubbing out I may as well know."

"Come outside with me and I'll tell you about it."

The detective strolled to the door, opened it and passed into the darkness. He stood with Mac in another cellar.

"Everything's set. We've got the car waiting outside for us. The driver is O.K. Maling gets a bogus call telling him to report at the Yard. He leaves the house and we fall in the procession. You shoot the works, and that's the end of Mating. All very simple."

"Not quite so simple, Mac. The Dropper might be the big noise, but I'm not landing into anything like the last job. What happens to us after we've given Maling the works? I haven't forgotten yet what happened after our party in Beaumont Street. What about the getaway?"

"That's easy. We just drive back here."

"You're telling me? I don't fancy a ride all the way from Westbourne Terrace to here after I've drilled a chief constable. They're not quite like ordinary policemen, and we've got a helluva way to come back."

"It isn't as far as all that. Don't get nerves about the job."

"But we're a long way from Westbourne Terrace."

"Never. It can't be more than six or seven miles from there to West India Docks."

Mac stopped abruptly, and Sanderson smiled in the darkness. That was something! He thought for a while before he asked:

"And how do we let the boss know that the job's been done and that everything is O.K.?"

"Oh, that's easy enough. We'll come right back here. He'll be waiting for the news. Are you about ready to make a start?"

"Pretty well. Let's get back and have another smoke before we hit the trail. This is a rotten cold place for a hang-out. It gives me the dithers."

"That's because it's under river level, and these old places are full of draughts and damp. Get inside."

They walked back into the room. The detective's original guards sat at the far end of the table playing cards. Albino paced the floor restlessly. The girl sat with her shoulders bowed, looking up as they entered, obviously frightened. Sanderson walked over to her.

"Are you feeling warm enough, kid?" he asked,

It seemed to take a few seconds before she appreciated the question.

"Not very," she said. "Why have I been brought here? What's the matter?" Her voice was tremulous, but the tone was that of a cultured woman.

"Anybody got a rug hanging about?" asked the Yard man. "Just because the girl's here she hasn't got to freeze."

No one moved, and he turned to Mac.

"Lend the kid your coat, Mac, until you come back. You won't be wanting it in the car. You can see she's ill, and this cellar is no place for invalids. She's got mine already."

The girl looked up with a wan smile. Mac hesitated, then peeled off his coat. It was not that be cared for the girl's health or feelings, but at times Mac. prided himself as a lady's man, and he, didn't want to be defeated as a cavalier. As he took off the coat Sanderson helped him out of it, and then walked over to the girl with the garment folded over his arm. She rose from her seat, and as her right hand came down the sleeve the Yard man, as though straightening the sleeve, pressed her hand through into the side pocket, facing the girl so  that her face could not be seen. Her fingers touched something hard, and a frown crossed her face. Sanderson, gave a slight wink and the girl felt again as she settled back in her seat.

She averted her face and stared at the floor. Now she knew that she was holding the butt of a revolver. Mac's .45 had soon changed hands. Some seconds passed before she raised her eyes.

"Thank you very much indeed," she said to Mac; but the Yard man knew that she was speaking to him.

"We're all ready for the road," said Mac. "Come along, you two."

"Wait for me," said the Yard man. "Don't forget that I don't know my way out. This place is an absolute labyrinth."

As they threaded their way through the darkness Sanderson struggled to trace their route. Mac waited for them at the exit, and Sanderson fell in by his side. Albino, walking at the back, hadn't noticed the sudden move with which Sanderson ground his lighted cigarette into the wooden door.

After pasting through the Stygian blackness of the cellars the detective found that he could see comparatively well outside. In fact, as they turned the first corner his keen eyes detected a water tap affixed to the left-hand wall. As he passed he gave the tap a trivial twist. In the road a saloon car, carrying no lights, was parked against the kerb. Sanderson opened the door and stood on one side while Mac and Albino climbed in. His eyes scanned every direction.

Three things he saw which remained in his memory. The first was a broken pane in a derelict warehouse at the head of the alley, the second was a sign hanging over the door of a Salvation Army Hostel, and the third was a packing- case resting against the wall at the entrance to another alley. He climbed into his seat and slumped back, I wondering, with an odd detachment, whether he was heading for death.

11: Taking The Risk

"YOU take things very cushily," said Mac, staring at Sanderson.

"What's the use of any other way?"

"If my boss wants a job done I just get on with it. What's worrying me is the getaway after we've given Maling the works; and I'm not I fancying my chance of hitting that man through this window. It seems to me that the Dropper hasn't got much idea of how to run these jobs."

"Have you done anything like it before?" inquired Mac.

"I'm telling no stories. But I'll pass this tip to you for nothing— if ever you have to handle a running murder, drive the car yourself. It's the safest way of keeping out of trouble."

"I can't see that it makes any difference."

"That's because you've never tried it. How does the guy sitting at that wheel know my methods? How does he know whether I want to shoot from the rear, the ride or the front? How can he tell when I'm ready for him to put his foot down and scram? How does he know whether I'd rather take the man with a turning car or with a car running alongside the kerb, whether I'd rather be driven in the opposite direction to Maling or towards him the other way? There's another half-dozen reasons why you make a better job if you're driving yourself."

Mac appeared impressed, thumbed his chin as though reflecting.

"I never thought there was all that in it. Reckon you're right, and the Dropper hasn't handled one of these jobs before."

Sanderson saw the opening and spoke quickly:

"It's all very well to say that, Mac, but you've got to remember that were taking all the risk. We're the ones who carry the can back if anything goes wrong. I reckon the Dropper has doubled our risks by letting that other bloke drive this bus."

"It's no good arguing. If we altered the plans now the boss would sit us on a warm―"

"Why? He wouldn't know anything about it As soon as I'd done my stuff I'd swing the car round, drive like blazes for five minutes, and then hand the wheel over to the bloke again. If we did it that way the Dropper wouldn't know the first thing about it. What do you say about it. Albino?"

"Anything goes with me," said the man.

"In that case, Mac, I reckon we'd do it my way. One other thing— to make sure that we've got him, one of you can lean out of this window and slam him with a couple when I fire. Tap the window and tell the driver to stop for a minute."

Mac paused irresolutely and then rapped on the dividing glass. The driver slowed down and turned round. Catching the message, he applied the brakes, slipped out of his seat and walked round to the rear of the car.

Mac acted as spokesman:

"I've changed the arrangements," he said. "You get in the back with us and Eddie here will drive the car."

The driver appeared astonished, but he offered no opposition. The. Yard man climbed out of his seat, struggling to hide his triumph. He was in no hurry to start away. He had succeeded in obtaining the driving seat, but he had no idea what use he could make of it. The men behind could shoot quite easily through the glass, and he would be unable to prevent them murdering both Maling and himself. He turned up Grays Inn Road and weaved through the streets lying alongside it. Finally he cruised along Bolsover Street and had reached the junction with Euston Road when he suddenly arrived at his decision.

Sanderson took a deep breath, his lips set in a firm, straight line, and he drove across Euston Road into Albany Street. Some one in the back of the car tapped the window. He knew why. They thought he was taking the wrong way. They were right.

Mac and his companions never knew quite what happened. The Yard man slammed his foot down on the accelerator pedal, threw himself on the floor on the left of the driving neat and wrenched the wheel away from himself. Then he clenched his teeth and waited for the smash. He felt the car reel as the wheels struck the kerb, dive forward again, heard screams from the rear, placed his head on his arms, and then heard a tearing crash as the car struck. He was flung forward with his arms against the door; and he rocked as the vehicle swayed drunkenly. Then he almost stood on his head as the car pitched over on its ride. It was a second before be realised that he was not hurt. He started to drag himself up, and at that moment the door beside the driving wheel opened and a policeman looked into the wreck.

"Armed men in the back," shouted Sanderson. "Call for help."

The constable whipped a whistle from his pocket and blew. Almost as though produced by the wave, of a magic wand, three more policemen appeared. Sanderson drew his gun from his pocket and hauled himself out of the car.

"All get your cuffs out," he snapped. "Arrest the three men in the back. I'll cover them while you get the bracelets on."

The detective walked round to the other ride f the car and wrenched at the door for moment before he could open it. Mac was thee first to emerge. His face was covered with blood. The driver followed him out holding his shoulder and whining with pain. Albino was lying unconscious on the floor, and the police dragged him out.

"What's the game?" demanded Mac, weak voiced with shock.

"That's what I want to know," said the sergeant.

"I'll tell you plenty later on," cut in Sanderson. "Charge these three men with loitering with intent. There's plenty more to come, but it can wait"

"But who are you?" asked the sergeant.

"Detective Inspector Sanderson, New Scotland Yard."

Mac gave him a stupefied stare. Then he groaned as he saw nearby the blue light of a police station.

"You're seeing straight" said Sanderson. "I crashed the car into Albany Street Police Station."

The men trailed into the station, and Sanderson seized the telephone, called for Chief Constable Maling's number.

"Sanderson here," he announced. "Come along to Albany Street Police Station right away, sir. Tell the operator on the exchange to get the number of any person who calls you in the next half hour and telephone it to the Yard. Give instructions at the Yard to trace that number and try to arrest the person who called you. Do that before you come round, sir, but for the love of Mike be quick!"

Maling was too old in the ways of the Force to waste time asking questions. He slammed down the receiver and started work, while Sanderson telephoned the police in the West India Docks district and connected with a detective-sergeant.

"Inspector Sanderson of the Yard speaking. I've got a very urgent and very important job for you. Somewhere in your district there is a Salvation Army hostel, and near it there is a packing case lying on the pavement. Ten yards away from that case there is a broken window in an empty warehouse. I want to know in what street that is. Have you got that clear? Whoever takes on the job must not be seen. That's vital. Tell them to report back to the station and wait for me to arrive. Have four or five men ready to come with me. Serve them out with revolvers. All clear? Good! See you soon."

He snapped down the receiver and made another call. This time he telephoned the River Police at the West India Docks.

"Inspector Sanderson of the Yard speaking. We're going to raid a place within the next hour that backs down to the water in your district. Some of the people we're after may try to get away via the Thames. Tell your patrol boats to cruise up and down that stretch of water until I give them the all-clear. They are to look out particularly for any boat in which there is a young woman; but any vessel that starts moving within the next hour must be stopped, whoever Is in it. All clear?

12: Locked Doors

SANDERSON was pacing to and fro across the charge-room floor when Maling burst into the station. Instantly he rushed over to the inspector.

"What's going wrong tonight? What's that car piled up for outside? Phew? I've never had such a job in my life. You'll have to come back to the Yard with me. Something terrible has happened."

"It certainly has, sir."

"But you can't have heard the news."

"I've heard enough tonight to last me for a lifetime."

"But the commissioner is stark, raving―"

"Maybe he'll be feeling better by the morning. If you've, got a car outside well jump in and get down to the East End.

"We certainly will not. Well go to the Yard right away. You can forget your job. I've got something more important for you to help with— the worst crime we've had since the Yard was built."

"It's got to be pretty bad if I can't tell you of any worse."

"Don't talk, Sanderson. start moving. I'll tell you what's happened as we go along. You can drive." Maling seized the inspector by the arm and dragged him. outside.

"But I've got a very important job to do, sir," protested Sanderson.

"Listen to me," exploded Maling as the car pulled away from the kerb, "the commissioner's daughter has been kidnapped!'

"What!" Sanderson slowed down and turned to gape at Maling.

"Can't you hear? Sir Philip Mason's daughter has been snatched! She was in a nursing home, and some one sent a dummy message and had her transferred to another home. She was abducted from there."

"Where was the second home?" asked Sanderson weakly.

"56A Beaumont Street. Why?"

The car stopped suddenly as the brakes whined. Sanderson could feel globules of sweat pouring down his face. Maling looked at him.

"What's the matter? Are you feeling ill?"

"I certainly am! I'm the man, who kidnapped her!"

Chief-Constable Maling sat up as if he had been stuck with a pin. He stared at Sanderson with eyes that seemed about to burst. Before he had time to speak the sergeant took off the brakes, twisted the wheel and plunged along the road, driving like a maniac. By the time they reached Stepney the chief-constable had heard the whole story.

"We ought to have brought forty or fifty men with us," he said.

"No. sir. If you took a regiment down there you'd get the crowd on the run. It can be done with half a dozen men."

He whizzed round a corner, teetering on two wheels, then added so softly that his chief scarcely hear him: "I got the girl into the mess and I'm going to get her out of it."

"If anything happens to that girl, Sanderson. it'll be your last day with the Force. I know you did it all for the best but you'd never be able to tell that to the commissioner."

"I know, sir. I wouldn't try to. If anything happens to that girl I won't wait to be sacked. Here's the station."

Both men jumped out and ran across the pavement They found a young divisional detective waiting for them. He saluted the chief and wasted no time before he handed out his information.

"You want Forbes Street, sir. I'm ready to take you there."

Before Maling could reply, three men walked from an inner office. The leader saluted.

"Sergeant Wayne, sir. We're ready when you are."

"Take your instructions from Sanderson," said Maling. "He's in charge of the raid."

"Are you all armed?" asked Sanderson. The men nodded grimly.

"Then I'll tell you what I want you to do."

He explained the position of the alley at length, told them the position of the entrance door, spoke of the labyrinthine passages inside, of the false square on the wall.

"Does anyone know that place well enough to tell me whether there is a back way? I want to get to the spot behind that cellar. I want to get into the room from which the Dropper spoke."

"I think I can take you," said Wayne. "Of course, I don't know the room, but I've got a rough idea of the back way. The place used to be a bonded store for wines and spirits, but it hasn't been used for twenty years."

"That's splendid. I want two of you to stand guard over the entrance to that place in the alley. Don't move from there, and if anyone comes near knock him unconscious before he can raise any sort of warning. I want you, sir, to wait outride with another of the men for twenty minutes after your arrival there. At the end of that time open the door and start working your way through to the back cellar. Keep your guns in your hands and don't be afraid of using them.

"While you do that Wayne will show me the back way into the place, and he can stand guard there while I work my way through."

"But you're not going in alone, Sanderson," protested Maling.

"I certainly am, sir. It isn't a two-man job; and in any case the Dropper is my pigeon. We'll start moving after I've telephoned the River Police."

Sanderson was soon satisfied. The Thames Police were on the prowl, casting eagle eyes over the range of black water fronting the West India Docks. He led the way out of the station, stopping for an instant on the doorstep.

"If you get into that cellar all right, sir, shout to Miss Mason to press against the left-hand wall. Otherwise she'll be in range from that hole in the wall, and if I haven't got to me by then the Dropper may shoot her out of spite. If I have him pinned down by the time you arrive I'll let you know as soon as I see you. All clear?"

"Certainly."

It was a new experience for Maling to take orders from an inspector, but he felt that the leading of the raid was in good hands. They had not walked far before Wayne touched the Yard man on the arm.

"This is where we part company," he said, turning down a narrow alley. Sanderson followed him..

Wayne twisted and turned along the narrow alleys, bending all the time' toward the left. Finally he arrived at the end of a cul-de-sac and pointed to a high wall.

"Climb on my back, and get on the top of that. You can pull me up."

It was not long before both men dropped down into the yard of a factory, walked down to the end of the yard, clambered over another wall and arrived on a Wharf. A night watchman emerged from the shadows and challenged them. Wayne signalled him to be quiet, and whispered:

"Quiet. You know me. Have you got a small boat?"

The watchman had spent so much time in solitude that he had learnt the art of silence. Without another word he led the way down to the riverside, pointed to a small rowing boat and walked away. Wayne slipped the mooring rope, pulled into the stream and rowed westward.

He had not travelled more than twenty yards when they heard the low hum of a motor, and a boat slid alongside.

"Who is that?" called a man.

"Detective Inspector Sanderson of the Yard and Detective Sergeant Wayne. Is that the River Police?"

"It is." A lamp shone in their faces. "All right. The best of luck."

The police boat edged away, to vanish in the darkness. Sanderson watched it disappear and nodded his head approvingly. It didn't look as though the Dropper would escape by water, unless he shot his way through. Two minutes later Wayne pulled in to the edge of another wharf, fastened the boat and clambered out.

"It's is the river frontage to that place of yours," he told the Yard man. "Follow me carefully, or you'll end up by swimming. There are cuts leading to this wharf from the river."

Sanderson gripped the other man's sleeve, and was led along in silence. Now that the moment for action was drawing near the Yard man was coldly resolute. Again and again his mind conjured up a vision of the commissioner's daughter, pale faced and trembling.

Wayne stopped suddenly before a large wooden door. A steel bar ran across it and in the centre was a padlocked chain fastening. Sanderson watched his companion draw a piece of metal from his pocket and force it under the bolts securing the bar. Wayne, taking no chances, had brought a jemmy with him, and as the bolts came adrift from their fastening and the bar dropped.

Sanderson caught it so that no sound would be made, then Wayne started work on the padlock. It offered no obstacle to a man who knew how to handle it, and soon they pulled back the doors and advanced cautiously and slowly through the dark interior.

"I'm going to chance a light," whispered Wayne, placing his handkerchief over the glass of a torch. The dimmed illumination was switched on just in time. The men were standing not more than four feet from the edge of a narrow cutting running from the river up the wharf and into the shed.

Sanderson saw something else.

Farther along the cutting stood a small launch— and he could hear the engine ticking over. Obviously its owner was ready to stage a rapid exit. They walked over to it and flashed the light down. Suddenly the Yard man bent down and raised the engine cover. His fingers worked deftly for a few seconds, then he rose again with a smile.

"He won't get that boat out of here tonight," he whispered, "unless he uses a pair of oars. Let's walk on at the ride of this cutting and see where it ends."

After taking ten paces they found that the water stopped against a brick wall, and to the left was a small door. Wayne tried to force it with his jemmy, found it impossible to get proper leverage, and worked on it with skeleton keys for some time. Both sighed with relief when it swung back. Sanderson gripped his gun in his right hand, tensed, expecting to meet trouble any moment. The interior of the warehouse was strangely quiet. Even in the dark, although they could not estimate the size of the building, it gave the impression of being huge.

"I know these places," said Wayne. "There's only be one exit from here, and that'll be at the far end. Mostly there's a doorway leading down to the cellars."

He was right They found the doorway tucked in a small alcove. It proved easier to open than the entrance portal. Wayne was moving forward again when the Yard man touched his arm and shook his head.

"No," he said. "You've done your part of the job. The rest is up to me. Just stay near this door and see that no person comes in or out."

Wayne started to remonstrate,, but before he could speak Sanderson had vanished into the darkness. He groped with his feet as he advanced, testing each foot of ground before he placed his weight on it. It was as well that he did. He was not more than five or six yards away from Wayne when his right foot found no hold. He was at the head of a flight of stairs.

Holding the wall with his left hand, he started the descent The air was cold and dank, chilling him. The steps were slippery with moisture, and even the wall exuded a cold slime. At the foot of the stairs he fumbled his way along a narrow passage. Then the path began to swerve to the right.

Holding out the gun in his right hand and pawing the other wall with his left, he searched for doorways as he advanced, but could find none. It seemed that the passage was interminably long. He had counted forty-three paces before he was confronted with another door. This one was not locked. Again, after passing through the opening, his way led along a path bending to the right and again there was no door on the way.

Suddenly he stopped, raised his head and sniffed the air. Either some person smoking a cigar had walked along the passage, or some cigar-smoker was near him. He stepped forward more cautiously, and just as he turned another bend he saw the first glimmer of light— a dim yellow flicker in the distance. Sanderson slipped his gun into his pocket, bent down and took off his shoes.

Silently he continued his advance, waiting for action. At the next bend he saw that the light was glowing round a corner, and he edged his way along the wall to peep round the angle. It was fortunate for him that his approach was stealthy. A man sat on a chair in the centre of the passage not more than two yards away from him. He was reading an evening paper. Sanderson saw a revolver lying on the floor at the man's side and stole towards him on tiptoe. He changed the gun round in his hand, his arm rose in an arc. The watchman never knew what hit him.

The man groaned faintly and Sanderson caught him as he toppled from his chair. He was walking away from the man when another thought occurred to him, and he deprived him of his overcoat and cap, leaving his own hat behind. The light, he discovered, came from a small gas-jet farther along the passage. As he passed that he saw a door facing him. It was lined with green baize and looked as though it was erected as a soundproof structure. He walked forward even more slowly. The smell of cigar smoke was stronger. Now that he was nearer to the door he could see that a keyhole broke the line of baize. He bent to discover whether there was any key inserted. There was not. But a light shone within.

Sanderson cupped his fingers round his left eye to throw off the effect of the gaslight behind him and peered into the room. He had expected to see a dull, drab cellar with a stone-flagged floor and dirty, damp walls. Instead, the narrow angle of his vision displayed a space of velvet curtains on the far wall, a large gilt standard lamp, a damask divan fashioned in rich purple, the corner of a luxurious fur rug flung over the end of the divan, and a coal fire blazing merrily in a brick fireplace. Beyond that he could see nothing.

He held his nose close to the keyhole. Someone in that room was smoking a cigar. He placed his ear against the aperture, but heard no sound. For a couple of minutes he hesitated. It would be fatal to try the door if the Dropper was inside. That would be one way to certain death. He stood wondering whether it was locked or barred. Then he heard a sound of movement, stiffened and stared.

13: According To Orders

THE noise was slight, just a gentle rustle like feet falling on a carpet of rich pile. Then a figure came into line with the keyhole. He had walked from some position near the door across the room, and his back was turned to Sanderson. The man wore an immaculate evening suit and carried an amber cigar-holder in a pale right hand. He had poise, an air of complete confidence. Was this the Dropper? The man's action on reaching the far side of the room was curious. He placed his hand at a small water-colour framed in ebony, and moved it to one side. Behind it was a small steel door, very similar to an inset safe. He languidly took a key from his pocket and unlocked the door. Inside was a square opening about two feet long, a foot wide and eighteen inches deep. The man stood staring into the opening. Suddenly the man spoke. Sanderson sighed with relief when he discovered that he could hear him.

"Michael," he said, "is there still no news of Mac and the others?"

The reply could not be heard, but the detective had no doubt about the nature of it. He saw the man snap his fingers irritably.

"One of you get round to the back," ordered the man, "and make sure that my launch is all right. I can't wait much longer."

That settled it. Something would have to be done, and done quickly. The Yard man backed away along the corridor, gripping the gun, then his thirteen stone of bone, sinew and muscle hurtled along the passage, crashed into the door with the force of an avalanche, and there was a tearing, splintering sound as the door flew open.

The Yard man did not lose balance, but the man who wheeled to face him acted with the speed of a striking adder. His hand streaked to his breast pocket, a gun rose, and Sanderson swerved and fired. The other's gun boomed out also, and a hot stabbing pain seared Sanderson's left shoulder. The man facing him grimaced horribly as his gun clattered out of his hand. Then he gripped his right arm, and they stared at each other for seconds without moving. Sanderson held the gun with an unsteady hand. Blood was coursing from his shoulder He had never seen this man before. He examined the refined, aquiline features, the cold grey eyes, the carefully toileted black hair. This was no ordinary man.

"You're making a great mistake," began the other loftily.

"So will you if you move," cut in Sanderson.

Suddenly both men started. A shot had echoed in the adjoining cellar. Sanderson decided to wait no longer, walking over to the man as though to handcuff him, he drew behind him, struck him on the base of the skull with the butt of his gun, watched him fall and then hurried over to the hole in the wall.

Through the canvas he caught a vision that made him gasp with relief. One of Miss Mason's guards was lying on the floor, groaning and holding his stomach. The other stood sullenly by the door. Maling and the local man covered him. The commissioner's daughter leant against the table, a revolver in her hand.

"Chief," shouted Sanderson, "I've got the Dropper out here."

Maling looked round, puzzled, until Miss Mason led him over to the wall. Sanderson dropped his gun and wrenched away the canvas. He grinned cheerfully when the chief saw him.

"Who is he?" asked Maling breathlessly.

"I dunno him from Adam. I'll lift him up and you can have a look."

Maling peered through the opening, while Sanderson, wincing with pain, seized the unconscious man by the shoulders and lifted him.

"My hat!" shouted the chief. "I can't be seeing straight. That's Martin Cross, the Independent Member of Parliament for Streatham— the man who attacked the Yard for not finding the Dropper! Hold on. I'll send someone round there."

Sanderson didn't have long to wait. Maling's prisoner volunteered the necessary information, and the local detective slid through the covered trapdoor in the corner of the cellar, to reappear in the Dropper's private room. Immediately Sanderson handed over the prisoner and made his way into the cellar. Maling stared at the blood soaking through the inspector's clothes and shook his head mournfully.

Miss Mason stood back, too surprised to speak. It was Maling who affected the necessary introduction.

"Then you're not a criminal at all?" she said.

"It's just that I've never been found out. What happened to you, Miss Mason? How'd they come to kidnap you?"

"Daddy sent me to a nursing home for an operation— just glands. I got a message, changing the home. It seemed genuine enough. When I got to the other place they gave me something to take, and I didn't remember any more until I found myself here."

"I thought you'd been doped," said Sanderson. "Reckon they gave you morphia." He turned to their conscious prisoner. "What was the idea of sending me along to murder Chief-Constable Maling?"

"He told the others to bump you off, whether you shot your boss or not. He thought it was a good joke to force you into shooting your own boss. He was funny like that!"

"So he'd tumbled you," said Maling. "What an escape you've had. But you'd better get along and have that wound dressed. Get some one to take you in my car. I'll have to stay on here to clear things up."

"I'll see Miss Mason home, on the way, then, if you don't mind."

"I shouldn't trouble," said the girl, staring at his shoulder.

"I may as well finish the job," remarked the Yard man with a grin. "After all, I brought you here, so I'm entitled to take you back."

Without waiting for her answer, he walked over to the local detective, pulling his notecase out of his pocket. "I want you to do a job for me this morning. Do you mind?"

"Not in the least."

"Thanks. Take this pound and buy a large box of chocolates and a bunch of flowers. Take them along to 67 Culbert Street, Stepney, and present them to a lady named Elsie Meers. Tell her they come from Eddie, who has been called to the North very suddenly, but who'll remember her with gratitude and affection for the rest of his life. Thanks."

The door slammed. Detective-Inspector Sanderson was on his way.

__________________

3: The Murder Trap

The Thriller Apr 13 1935

Weekly Times (Melbourne) 18 July 1936

1: A Bundle of Letters

CORINNE WALTERS peered into the mirror, raised a small white hand to stifle a yawn and smiled at her reflection as she admired her slim body swathed in a brocade dressing-gown, fashioned in green and gold to match the extravagant embellishments of the bedroom. The maid had just retired. It was five minutes to twelve, and only the occasional hooting of a taxi broke the midnight silence of Grosvenor Square.

She rose from the seat before the ornate dressing-table, sprayed her hair with jasmine scent, and sauntered across the thick carpet towards the lacquer bed. She felt vividly awake. Standing by the edge of the bed, touching her hair with a final pat, she shrugged her shoulders and shivered. An electric fire shone near the bed, but a sudden cold had penetrated her flimsy attire. She turned to look towards the window, wondering whether the maid had opened the casements too wide. The shrill chimes from an ormolu clock announced the arrival of midnight. "

The curtains blew back from the window, billowing in the bedroom. Corinne frowned, muttered imprecations on the head of the maid, and walked across the room. She had pulled back the curtain and extended a hand to grasp the window before she tottered on her feet, blanched, and a shriek stifled in her throat.  A man sat on the windowsill. swinging his legs against the wall of the bedroom.  Languidly he raised his opera hat and bowed.

Corinne stepped back falteringly, fear choking her speech. As her trembling limbs moved towards the bed the stranger slipped off the window-sill and walked into the room.

The actress, her eyes dilated with shock, stared at him as though unwilling to accept his presence as a reality. The man was tall and slim. A black evening coat moulded his athletic figure, accentuating its elegance. A silk hat set at a jaunty angle, rose above his high forehead. A mask of boats crepe covered his eyes and nose. The mouth was sharply defined, his lips slightly twisted as though the stranger chuckled over some sardonic joke. A white silk scarf encircled his neck, and gloves encased his hands. Corinne found herself shaking with fear.

"Who— who are you?" "she stuttered at last.

"Does it matter?" said the stranger. His voice was musical, low-pitched. She made no response, staring as though hypnotised while he drew a gold cigarette-case from his breast pocket and offered her a smoke. Automatically she extended a trembling hand, took a smoke from the proffered case. The man flicked a gold lighter. Their cigarettes glowed. He placed his hat on a small table, strolled over to the bed and sat down. Certainly he could not have been more at home. more unconcerned in the privacy of his own apartments.

She tried to pull herself together. The situation was ridiculous.

"I'm sorry you're nervous," he said, puffing a smoke cloud into the air "Perhaps I shouldn't have entered through the window. It isn't usual. But the blame rests with other people. They object to my entering in the normal way."

"What— what do you want?" asked Corinne. Her chattering teeth had bitten into the cigarette end.

"Nothing, for a moment. Let's wait till you feel calm."

He seemed in no hurry. His speech, like his movements, was slow, aggravatingly slow. It was not that his nerves were under strenuous control. He had been born without any. "I called in to talk to you about one of your friends. Miss Walters."

"What's your name? Who are you?"

He crossed his legs and chuckled as he drew at his cigarette. "Difficult question to answer. I call myself Ray Winter— it's a sort of stage name to me. Scotland Yard call me a public danger. My friends call me whatever name I'm using at the moment. Some of the folks on whom I've called give me unprintable names. A few girls call me 'darling,' You can take your pick. For myself, I prefer 'darling.'."

The man's nonchalance was amazing. For one fleeting second Corinne thought she was the victim of a practical joke. Then she saw the sombre brown of his eyes, saw the depth of power behind the steady g «m. and changed her mind.

"What do you want?" she repeated.

"Not much, Corinne. What I want from you will cost you nothing. Hat should make you feel better. I might have taken your famous jewellery, but I know you sold the originals last autumn. Fakes don t interest me. I want to talk to you about Sir Edgar Murray."

She stiffened, pressed her hand back against the bedrail. He looked down and saw the white knuckles gleaming through the flesh.

"Don't let the name alarm you. and don't tell me you have never heard of him."

"I don't understand you." said the actress hesitantly.

"Dear, dear, dear!" said the intruder, fumbling in his coat pocket. "A good job I came prepared lest you might act childishly. Take a look at this."

He handed her a photograph. She glanced and averted her head. The snapshot showed her walking along a beach arm-in-arm with a portly man of middle age. They were gazing into each other's eyes.

"I took that myself," said the man, "while you were on holiday at Termini in Sicily. Rather more off the beaten track than Palermo. eh?"

"Well, what do you want?" she snapped. This man could not be bluffed. He was calling his hand off four aces.

"One hates to be crude about these things. I appreciate a little finesse. Let us say that for more than a year an idyllic romance, pure pastorale, has been progressing between yourself and Sir Edgar. It grieves a person of my sensitivity, a person with my regard for romanticism, to feel that between the baronet and yourself there exists a barrier in the form of his wife. These handicaps have to be borne in a spirit of fortitude. If she could read the letters which her devoted husband has written to you during the past year she would form views unacceptable to both you and her husband. In order to prevent such a catastrophe arising, I have come for the letters. Now we understand each other perfectly."

"But they've all been burnt," protested the actress.

"That's too bad, just too bad. You see, it so happens that your association with Sir Edgar hasn't been your only excursion into romance. In fact, it was your third. The first was charming. You fell in love and married the man. The second was unfortunate. You fell in love and married absent-mindedly, forgetting your first husband. What a tragedy it would be if the police knew you were a bigamist"

Her lips trembled and she stared at him, eyes loaded with fear. "How did you come to know that?"

"Madame, it's just part of my profession. Give me those letters."

"If I don't give them to you are you going to tell the police?"

"I might remind them that all great artists are temperamental, and that you had unwittingly broken the law through not concentrating on things so material as the rules of matrimony."

The actress sighed heavily and rose to her feet. So did the other.

"Are you going to blackmail Sir Edgar? Is that why you want them?"

"Blackmail? That's an odd word. Rather let us say that his affectionate epistolary style might assist me during an argument I am about to have with him. But we're wasting time. Get the letters, please."

She walked over to a Chinese screen in the corner of the room, drew it aside, revealing a small circular safe set into the wall Then she turned. "I haven't got the key. You'd better come tomorrow." I can open it without your key if you like. That's not a safe. It's a passable imitation of a child's money-box. Come on, open it. I'm tired."

She took the key from the tubular bamboo on the screen, swung bade the safe door, thrust in her hand and withdrew it holding a thick packet of letters. The man took them from her, glanced at them and kissed them as with a sarcastic bow he moved to the window. He paused with one leg cocked over the ledge.

"By the way, if you should tell the police that I have called it will be my duty to tell them what I came for and why you felt constrained to hand them to me. Think it over. In the meantime, sleep well. Good night"

The curtains swirled in the breeze. The man had gone.

SIR EDGAR MURRAY snapped the fingers of his left hand and looked at the clock. It was ten minutes to one. In his right hand he held a telephone receiver. His face was dour, the jaw square cut and belligerent.

"I'm not going to talk to you all night!" he snapped. "When I give orders I don't expect arguments. I want those details by noon, Pritchard. and if they're not on my office desk then you can look around for another job. That's all."

He slammed down the receiver with unnecessary violence. A dull flush of angry red showed on his cheekbones. He kicked up the butt of a cigar from the tray on the table, puffed at it and flung it into the fire. Then he crossed the room and opened the door to his bedroom. With a quick jerk he snatched at the electric light switch.

Then he stopped. The man sitting on the edge of the bed rose to his feet, bowed and placed a cigarette in his mouth.

"What the―" commenced the baronet.

His visitor raised a restraining hand. The flush of colour heightened on Sir Edgar's face as he looked at the debonair figure, the small crepe mask.

"Close the door." said the visitor. "What I have to say to you is quite confidential. Maybe it's lucky for you that I take that view."

"You fool!" stormed the baronet "Get out before I have you thrown out!"

"Not so fast. Sir Edgar. Sit down and we'll have a brief talk."

Sir Edgar turned toward the door.

"The only talk I'm going to have is with the police. Maybe you've scared other folks with your evening dress and your fancy dress mask, but you've tried the wrong person this time. I suppose you're the crook the papers have been shouting about?" The question was asked sarcastically.

"Such is fame. I don't think it would benefit your health to ring up the police. Sir Edgar. You're so used to trampling on others that the reverse experience would be quite an education for you."

Murray hesitated with his hand on the door. He was not alarmed.

"People stopped trying to bluff me thirty years ago." he said.

"I've never tried bluffing folks. It seems such a waste of time. Tell me, how Is Lady Murray keeping these days? The last time I saw her it seemed to me that a change would do her quite a lot of good. If it isn't an impertinence on my part, could I suggest that you took her on a sea voyage? Perhaps the air at Termini would suit her. Miss Walters, a friend of mine, could furnish her with the name of a most charming hotel."

Sir Edgar was no fool. He closed the door and walked over to his visitor, who stared at him with polite insolence.

"Blackmail, eh? All right, how much?"

"There is no such word in my dictionary. I deal mostly in exchanges. You have something I want. In return for that I will give you something of equal value. Knowing your reputation as a mean man, I realise now grateful you'll be to know that I don't want money."

"Then what the devil have you broken into my house for?"

"To effect an exchange," said the visitor quietly. "You, Sir Edgar, are the chairman and managing director of Murray, Cross and Wayne. They in turn are the biggest armament firm in Europe. Rather less than a month ago you had an order placed with you by the Dallonian Government You are manufacturing for them one hundred depth charges of an entirely original type. The secret of their composition is known to a few in your firm, to the inventor, and to a few in the Dallonian Government. I want the full details handed over to me by noon."

"You're stark, raving mad," spluttered Sir Edgar.

"Hardly. You're a business man. I'll show you my hand as a business proposition. You have a good name. You have a wife and two children. In the honours' list is a peerage coming to you, that's common knowledge. Houses are open to you which are not open to those who have been tarred with the brush of scandal. I have in my possession material which will drag the name of Sir Edgar Murray through the Divorce Division and blazon it through the newspapers.

"You will lose your wife. You will probably be alienated from your children. For a certainty your chance of a peerage will have gone for ever. And the doors of many friends will be fastened against you. I will preserve you from all that in return for the formula governing the manufacture of those depth changes. That's the offer."

The colour began to leave the baronet's face: some of his ebullient confidence seeped away. He sat dawn heavily on a settee.

"And what is the weapon you're holding?"

"Every letter you've ever written to Corinne Watters."

"My heavens! I don't believe it."

"Here is one of them. I don't mind handing it to you. If you destroy it about a hundred will remain for your wife to read through in her leisure moments. Just look at it carefully, particularly the reference to the bit about Paradise being in Termini. Curious type of business letter, Sir Edgar. I'm not surprised that you wrote it yourself. Your typist would have blushed over it."

The baronet glanced at the first page without reading the letter. He handed it back and cupped his chin in his hands.

"Hand me those letters, and I'll give you a cheque for three thousand pounds."

The visitor waved his hand airily, and lit another cigarette. "You're in no position to dictate terms. I'm calling the tune, and you know what my theme song is. I want that formula, and I won't exchange those letters for anything else."

"But, man, three thousand pounds! Think of it―"

"I have. You paid more than that for your wife's pearl necklace. You paid more than that for the winner of the Hunt Cup. Your yacht cost you forty thousand. The rent of this house costs you more than that each year. I didn't come here. Sir Edgar, to talk about pocket-money. Either I get what I want or you get what's coming to you."

"But this— this is blackmail!" the baronet spluttered.

"Then send for the police. I'll plead guilty and tell the full story at the Old Bailey. But remember that although newspapers could not publish these letters if they were read in the Divorce Division, they could, and would, spray the front pages with them if they were read at the Old Bailey. Don't let me interrupt you. Telephone the police."

The baronet looked round wildly as though expecting sudden salvation to descend from an inspired source. Then he shook his head hopelessly.

"How did you manage to get these letters?"

"If I asked you how you transacted your business you'd regard the question as impertinent. The same applies to me. We both have trade secrets. The only difference between us is that I'm an honest crook, and you make your living by manufacturing death. The time is five minutes past one. At ten past the hour I want to be out of this house. Your future rests in your hands. Start thinking."

"What will you do with a copy of the formula if I give it to you?"

"Continue along my usual line of business without inquiring into things that don't concern me."

The baronet rose and paced the floor, his hand knotted behind his back. From time to time he wheeled round to stare at the silent figure sitting in the chair.

"This is a very serious thing for me to do," he announced.

"I agree. Sir Edgar. The consequences will also be serious if you don't do it You pay your money and take your pick. Follow me?"

"You're a low swine!" snarled Sir Edgar. The visitor rose to his feet walked over to the man and stared at him.

"And you're not!" he said slowly. "You've made your fortune, and are making your fortune, by dealing in massed murder. You pose before the world as a statue of rectitude, and you're rotten from the soles of your feet upwards. You run an actress on the one hand, an enter the competition for a peerage on the other. You're betraying your wife and letting your children into the mire of your bad character. You're quite right. If you are a credit to society I must be a swine."

Sir Edgar opened his tips to reply looked into the other's eyes and changed his mind. There was something deadly, inscrutably dangerous about the smouldering expression centring in those eyes.

"I'll let you have the formula," said the baronet brokenly.

"Very good." The tone was brisk and business-like.

"A man will call upon you at your office at twelve noon. He will give the name of Gibbs. Hand the formula to him. When he has handed it over to me I will present him with the letters to return to you. If he is followed after he leaves your office you will not get the letters. So remember that I will have two men following Gibbs. Is that all clear?"

"How do I know that you will keep your word?"

"I have never broken it in my life. Just to reassure you on that point let me say this; If you try to pull any sort of a double-cross I will return to this house and blast you as wide open as a barn door. As I said before. I have never broken my word in my life. Goodnight."

And he picked up his hat, strolled over to the window, swung himself over, and vanished into the night.

It was some time before Sir Edgar recovered sufficiently to walk over and close the window. Then he was certain he could hear someone whistling down below.

"ORDINARILY," said the Commissioner of Police. "I take no notice of newspaper criticism. But this time it's gone beyond the limit. If this Ray Winter, as he calls himself, isn't caught very soon we'll have questions asked in the Commons, and everybody in this building will walk into trouble."

"That's the trouble," said Chief Constable Wheeler. "The public knows nothing at all about the difficulties. It's easier to find radium than to slap a pair of handcuffs on Winter. We've been after him for six months, and all we've found out is his name— and that's an assumed one. We haven't found out who he is, where he comes from, whether be works atone, where he gets his information, or where he'll pull off his next job. To add to the troubles, he's never left a fingerprint or a footmark behind, and his face is always covered. How can you catch a walking ghost?"

"Sanderson's been working on the case for a couple of months." said Superintendent Cox. "Send for him. and see what he's got to say."

The man at the head of the table pressed a bell, and gave the order. A couple of minutes later Detective-Inspector Sanderson walked in. The newcomer was barely 30. but his appearance gave no impression of youth. His eyes were blue and deep-set the nose sharply defined, the jaw resolute, the body slim, but with the slimness of a trained athlete.

"We've been talking about this fellow Winter," said the chief, "and since you're on the case we want your latest report"

"I'm sorry to say, sir," replied Sanderson, "that it won't take me long to give it. I am now exactly where I was when I commenced the investigation. In other words. Winter is as much a mystery as he was the day I first heard of him."

"That's not very encouraging." said the chief.

"I'm sorry, sir. If you would prefer that I relinquish the case I'd only be too happy to do so. Perhaps someone else could do better."

"Sanderson, you've got to stay on this case until you retire from the Force— but you've got to arrest Winter Tell me. what is he? What particular line of crime does he specialise in?"

"That's a difficult question. He's a bizarre character. Most of his coups I can't fathom at all. and the people involved won't often, talk to vou. It seems in nearly every case that he has put a sort of hoodoo on them. The only thing they're unanimous about is that he's always polite, and has never double-crossed anybody he's dealt with. It seems to me that he's an oddity among criminals— as man who keeps his word."

"But what's his line of crime? Each time his name crops up he seems to have varied his method."

"I know. That's why he's as slippery as an eel. Show me a criminal with a one-track mind, and I'll show you the man I can catch. They get into such a rut that they might as well leave their signatures on a job. But that isn't Winter's way. He's as varied as a chameleon, as cunning as a fox, as nerveless as a snake, and as cool as a seal."

"You seem to have an opinion of the man almost bordering on admiration. Sanderson."

"I have, sir." said the inspector, "and I don't mind admitting it!"

"Then he really must be an amazing person Sanderson."

"There can be no argument about that sir. Winter has got one of those weird brains that act two jumps before normal."

"Then you'll have to put your brain into top gear and see if you can't jump three times to his once. After all. Sanderson, you're on experienced detective. and it isn't like you to admit that a criminal can beat you. I'm hoping to hear better news from you. Thanks."

The inspector flushed, and walked out of the room. The chief smiled as he left, but Sanderson felt annoyed, sensed that his work was being criticised. For weeks he had wanted the work passed on to another man. There were, singularly enough, two reasons for this desire. The first was obvious— the case bristled with difficulties. The second was one which he could not divulge to the men sitting in conference.

After two months' work, after interviewing all Winter's victims who could he traced. Sanderson was not anxious to be the man to make the arrest. For the first time in his life he was not anxious to serve the side of law and order. He waited for his opinion to change, hoped that Winter would change his tactics, would resort to some form of crime that blotted out all sympathy. Then Sanderson would work with real zest with deadly determination. But that day was a long time arriving.

How he wished that Winter would smash a safe, stage a hold-up, blackmail an innocent party, rob with violence, or attempt a murder! Morning, noon and night the Yard man had puzzled over this strange meteor in the criminal sky, had tried to trace the man's lines of thought. But his ways were as varied as the colours of a rainbow.

Sanderson walked along the corridor, returning to his own office. An envelope rested on his blotting-pad. His name was typewritten, and in the bottom corner were the words.

"By Hand." He opened it without much interest, but after a casual glance he sat down and read slowly:

Dear Inspector,

You want to find Winter. At midnight you will find him making a call on Mr William Peel, the chairman of Imperial Travel Ltd. I would not advise you to inform Mr Peel that his visitor intends to arrive. Otherwise I fear you will be disappointed.

A Friend.

Sanderson slid the note in his pocket, and walked out of the office. For five minutes he made inquiries, endeavouring to discover the identity of the person who delivered the note. Finally he found that it had been handed in by a District Messenger boy. Thereafter the trail faded.

The Yard man walked into Whitehall, worrying over the problem as he headed for lunch. Never before had he received any prior tips, any advance information, about the movements of Winter. Now he was sceptical. Mr Peel, of course, he knew as the man who had built up an enormous tourist agency, as a man of wealth and social standing. He decided to call on him. and in the early part of the afternoon was shown into the luxurious office perched high above Oxford Circus.

"What do you want?" asked Mr Peel abruptly, fingering his letters.

"You have heard of a crook named Ray Winter?"

"Yes. Who hasn't? what about him?"

"I have received information that he intends to call on you at midnight tonight"

"Rubbish!"

"That's what I thought. But I played for safety first, and came along to warn you. If you don't mind I'd like to stay at your house for an hour or two this evening."

"You needn't trouble. I can look after myself. You've probably got the information from some imbecile who has a mania for raising scares. I'm too busy now. inspector. Thanks for calling. Good afternoon."

Sanderson smiled coldly and left the office. The tourist magnate was surfeited with the knowledge of his own importance.

The Yard man strolled along Regent Street hoping that Winter would make the promised call. The interview would be worth listening to!

He bought an evening paper, entered an hotel lounge for a pot of tea. Two items on the news he skimmed over, regarding them as of no interest. The first stated that the famous actress, Corinne Walters, was indisposed, and on medical advice had decided to take a rest for a few days. The second announced that Sir Edgar Murray had left by air for the Continent on a business mission. Sanderson wondered why the public took an interest in such trivialities.

Not more than twenty yards away a man looked at the same items, and smiled. Then he poured out some more tea, and drew deeply on his cigarette. His slender fingers were drumming on the glass lop of the table, and again he read the items. His lips were curled derisively. He looked up. and stared along the whole length of the lounge. For a second his eyes rested on the figure of the Yard man fitting near the door. The man's smile broadened.

Ray Winter was enjoying himself. A girl strolled along the carpeted floor. Some women seek attention. Others have it thrust upon them. This girl was definitely in the latter class. Looking at her was no strain on the eyes. From the crest of her saffron hair to the diminutive, silk encased feet she exhibited poise. The tinted lips parted in a smile as she sat at Winter's side. She, at least, was not nervous when with him!

2: The Other Passenger

SIR Mason Cross sighed with regret when the cloak-room attendant slid his hat and coat over the counter. For the fourth time in one week Sir Mason had been dragged from the comfort of his home to make an after-dinner speech. He loathed the job. But a First Lord of the Admiralty pays penalties for his fame. He walked through to the hotel entrance, and beckoned for a taxi. A cab pulled over from the rank. Sir Mason gave the order: "Wilson's Club, Piccadilly."

The driver opened the door, and the First Lord scrambled in. The driver was moving away when Sir Mason made the unnerving discovery that he was not alone in the taxi. A stranger sat on the far corner of the seat, a man whose face he could not see. He raised a hand to tap on the window, but his fellow -passenger took his wrist gently.

"Don't stop the cab," he said persuasively. "I want to talk to you."

"But I'm darned if I want to talk to you. Get out of here at once."

"Hold your horses. Sir Mason. In a couple of minutes you'll be glad that you met me. Just give me until you arrive at your club. If you don't want to continue the talk by then I'll leave you."

The First Lord grew red. spluttered as though to speak, and then recalled that the journey to his club would not take more than three minutes. He might as well humour the maniac!

"Go ahead." he said. "I'm listening."

"It is part of your duty as First Lord of the Admiralty to see that Britain is not left unprotected. It is essential that we should not be left behind by other countries. You know better than I do that the British Admiralty places great trust in depth-charges. You hoped that we had the best in the world. That hope has crashed. The Dallonian Admiralty have perfected a depth-charge which leaves those of all other countries well behind."

"I have heard that rumour before," said Sir Mason caustically.

"It is not a rumour," replied the stranger with impressive quietness. "I have in my pocket the entire details governing the manufacture of the Dallonian charges. They are infinitely better than any possessed by Britain. I am willing to negotiate with you for the sale of that document to the British Admiralty. Now you know why I waited for you to leave the hotel. What do you say?"

Sir Mason whistled softly, and sat back on the seat. The stranger did not talk like a lunatic. Rather did his speech give the inkling of a well-balanced brain. "How did you come to possess that document?"

"I'm selling it to you as it stands. If you want information about the manner in which I acquired it the deal is off. Surely all you need know is that I have it?"

"Who are you? I can't deal with an unknown person who refuses to give any sort of information!"

"You can. The proposition is perfectly simple. This document is worth a hundred thousand to Britain. I don't want to mulct my own country to that extent. I am prepared to hand over every detail essential to the manufacture of those charges for the sum of ten thousand pounds. On those terms, you take it or leave it. If you leave the offer I'd be reluctantly compelled to negotiate a sale in other quarters. By doing that I'd certainly ask for, and receive, a much larger sum than the one I ask you for. On the other hand. I'm sufficiently eccentric to prefer that the secret be sold to the British Admiralty."

The taxi stopped outside the portals of Wilson's Club. The first Lord hesitated for a few seconds. Then he bent round the open window.

"Drive round the park a few times," he said to the driver.

"I'll be quite frank with you, Sir Mason," said the stranger. "Nine times out of ten the trouble that negotiating such a sale as this would be that the parties would not trust each other, that you would not buy until your experts had examined the details and pronounced them workable, and I would not part with them until I drew the cash. Such a procedure could only end in deadlock. I have followed your public career with some interest I think you are a man one could trust On my part I give you an assurance that my word is my bond. So I am prepared to hand over these documents to you if you give me your word that a payment of ten thousand pounds will be made to me if the saleable information is all I claim for it."

"That seems a generous offer," said the First Lord. The stranger was an enigma. Sir Mason had never anticipated such a display of trust.

"I prefer to deal that way. I have laid all my cards on the table. All that I want now is your reply."

"I promise you that we will either return the formula without using it or we will make the necessary payment." "I am content. Here is the envelope. One week from today I'll get in touch with you. Further details you can leave to me."

Sir Mason took the bulky envelope. He felt a trifle dazed. "I needn't tell you, " he said, "that no word of this transaction must pass beyond us two. Secrecy is an essential condition of the deal."

"Don't worry. If I find you making any inquiries about me, or about the way in which those details came into my possession, I'm through. Perhaps you'd tell the driver to return to your club. There is nothing else to discuss, and I have another appointment." Sir Mason gave the necessary order. He was still bewildered.

"You'd better tell me some name by which I'll know you when you get in touch with me." he said.

"That's easy. The name isn't altogether unknown. I'm Ray Winter."

"Good heavens!" The First Lord moved farther away from the man. "But—but, how did you come to get this document?"

"Secrecy is an essential condition of the deal. Here's your club. Leave the cab fare to me. Good night."

Sir Mason brought the muttered curses of his partner on him many times that night. Men who had been members of Wilson's Club for years said his game of bridge was the most hopelessly incompetent they had ever seen. At one in the morning, the First Lord paid out £5/12/ and walked home with a bulky envelope tucked inside his overcoat.

He began to realise why the police hadn't caught Winter. The man seemed miles removed from crime. Why, said Sir Mason to himself, the fellow is almost a gentleman.

Sanderson sat in his office until nearly seven o'clock that night, uncertain of the mysterious reference to Mr Peel, wondering whether Winter was trying to bluff him into a false move. Finally. he put on his hat and coat and left the Yard, walking north to Bruton Street. He was taking no chances. It might be a thousand to one against the note being genuine. But Winter could be relied upon to achieve unexpected results, and that was why he paced the pavement facing the house of Mr Peel. A few minutes later a uniformed constable strolled along on his beat. Sanderson beckoned to him.

"I'm Sanderson of the Yard. I'm keeping an eye on the Peel house for an hour. Have you seen anybody hanging around?"

"No. sir. Are you expecting a break-in?"

"Maybe. What is at the back of the house if anyone tries to get in that way?"

"A mews, sir, with garages in it. Nobody would try a break through the front, but a good cat-burglar might scramble up the pipes at the back of the place. It's been done round here before."

"In that case I'd like you to keep an eye on the front of the house every few minutes. When you meet the sergeant on your point tell him what I want you to do. I'll get round to the back. Try to be here for ten minutes or so from five to twelve until a bit after midnight."

"All right, sir." The constable walked away, and Sanderson moved round to the mews. He yawned drowsily. The more he thought about the anonymous note the more he felt convinced that his vigil would be fruitless. It just didn't ring true.

Time dragged heavily. It seemed an endless while to the waiting man before a nearby clock chimed the quarter before midnight. A few domestic servants had hurried down the mews on their way from the cinema or theatre, and a few chauffeurs had arrived at the garages with their cars. Otherwise all was still. Sanderson was not surprised. Winter was not the kind of man to advertise his programme, nor was he the sort to pass along information to others.

The Yard man waited patiently until twenty minutes after the hour. Then he moved out of the mews, and walked into Bruton Street. The constable stood against a porch on the far side of the road.

"Looks as though we've wasted time," said Sanderson. "I was told a man might try to break at midnight. I'm waiting no longer. You can carry on along your beat. Thanks for holding the fort."

"All right, sir. Nothing has happened here except the lights were turned on in that first-floor room about a couple of minutes ago."

The constable pulled at his belt, hitched it up a little, looked along the road both ways, and started to walk toward New Bond Street. Sanderson had a smoke, and took a final look round. Then he, too, moved away. He had not gone many yards when a car lurched round the corner from New Bond Street and roared along Bruton Street.

The Yard man stepped off the pavement. Instantly he thought some raiders were blazing their trail to freedom after finishing a job. He was wrong. Two letters flashed on the blue square above the windscreen. They were "M.P."

Sanderson frowned. What brought a Flying Squad car into Bruton Street with such a swirl of speed? He heard the scream of brakes and the car shivered as it slowed down. It stopped outside the house of Mr William Peel!

Sanderson hesitated no longer, whipped round, and ran across the road. An inspector and a sergeant from Vine Street jumped from the car. and scurried up the steps. Sanderson joined them as they pressed the bell.

"What's the matter?" he asked. "I've been watching this house for more than an hour."

The divisional man looked at him. "Hallo, Sanderson. We've just had a hurry call― No details. Just told that something terrible has happened here. That's all I know."

"I'll come in with you."

The door opened, and a pallid butler stood back, as they walked into the hall. The man had been badly shaken. Before he had time to close the door people seemed to flood into the hall. There were three women in evening dress, two young men, and a small army of domestics.

"I am Inspector Fleming, from Vine Street," said the officer.

"Who telephoned for the police?"

"I did," said the butler weakly. The man certainly looked ill.

"What's the trouble?"

"It's the master, sir."

"Mr Peel? What's wrong with him?"

"He's dead, sir. He's been murdered!"

One of the women began to cry hysterically. Fleming looked toward the group, and burned to the sergeant.

"See these people into a room, and stay with them until I've had a look round. Sanderson, perhaps you'd better come with me."

The Yard man stared unbelievably at the butler. Murder? It seemed incredible. That was the last thing he expected, the most remote of all events. His eyes narrowed. It looked as though his hopes had materialised suddenly. All admiration for Winter had gone. He was no longer cloaked in glamour. The film of romance had been stripped from him. Winter was a killer and a criminal.

Sanderson braced his shoulders and spoke to the butler: "Take us to the body. You can tell us your story afterwards."

The butler shivered, and led the way up the staircase at the end of the hall, turning right-handed to open the door of a room at the far end of a corridor. The lights were on in the room.

The remains of Mr William Peel were sprawled on the carpet between a chair and a writing-desk. He had been garrotted. At the back of the neck a rope was knotted round the handle of a paper knife. Blood coated Peel's face, terrible evidence of his violent efforts to loosen the throttling rope.

A card was pinned to Peel's coat. Sanderson bent down to read it, and the expression on his face had changed. The butler glimpsed the hard, metallic light flickering in his eyes, saw the tightly drawn lips, and felt uncomfortable. It was the first time he had seen the danger signals showing on the face of a man-hunter. Fleming moved forward, bent down also. The message on the card was brief. The words were written in pencil, in printed letters —

"This man tried to cheat me— Ray Winter."

There was silence as the detectives looked at each other.

"I was warned earlier today," said the Yard man, "that Winter would make a midnight call here. That's why I waited."

He drew the note from his pocket, handed it over to Fleming.

"Tell us all you know about it," he said to the butler.

"Very little, sir. After dinner Mr Peel re-tired to his room— this room— to do some work. He often worked until after midnight At a few minutes after ten I asked him whether he wanted anything. He said 'No', and I left him. A few minutes ago I was about to go to bed, and, as is my custom, I made a final call to see whether anything was wanted. I then found Mr Peel as you see him now."

"Had anyone else been to see him between your two visits?"

"I couldn't say, sir, but I imagine not. Mr Peel did not like to be disturbed."

"Did you hear any outcry, any sound of a struggle?"

"Nothing at all, sir. I knew nothing about it until I came in here a little after twelve, and then I telephoned for the police."

"All right Get along downstairs and join the others."

Sanderson stood staring at the corpse before he looked round the room. Apart from the overturned chair there was no evidence of any struggle. The windows were closed, and the curtains drawn.

Again and again his glance returned to the card affixed to the chest of the corpse. It looked as though the message had been written on the back of a post-card. Sanderson wouldn't touch it. A glazed surface takes a ready fingerprint. Fleming lifted the telephone on the desk, and put through the call for the police surgeon. He was replacing the receiver when Sanderson stopped him.

"Ask the exchange whether any calls went through to this number tonight. We can check them through the switch downstairs if this line is only an extension. I rather fancy, though, that its a separate line. Looks, Fleming, as though those folks down below will stand a bit of questioning. I can't see how this can have been an outside job."

"We'll wait and see. That note you got makes the whole thing look darned funny to me. I d like to know who gave you the tip-off."

"So would I. There are moments, Fleming, when we splits get nervous about the look of things. I've got one of those moments now. I just can't see this job as a straight murder, Winter would never have spilled the beans to a second party if he'd contemplated coming here to commit murder, and it's hardly likely that he'd have sent me that note himself."

"He might have done it out of devilment so that he could laugh at you. That man can't be ranked alongside ordinary folk. I never have reckoned that he was right in the head."

"H'm. I'm not certain about that. At any rate, we'll get along with the routine work, and puzzle out the pet theories afterwards. Lets start."

For the next ten minutes, until the arrival of the police surgeon, the two men were busy. To the untrained onlooker it might have seemed that their investigation of the physical evidence left much to be desired; that they concerned themselves with trifles quite unconcerned with the crime. They would have been wrong. Sanderson and Fleming were working on the well-proved line that successful detection is ninety per cent perspiration and ten per cent inspiration.

After the surgeon's brief examination, the two men adjourned downstairs to interview those in the house at the time of the murder. The information they received did not bring hope. Mrs Peel and her daughter had been entertaining friends. All were in the drawing-room from ten o'clock until the discovery of the tragedy.

Dawn was breaking when Sanderson and Fleming temporarily retired from the fray, leaving other officers to proceed with inquiries. The Yard man was surprised to find that the late editions of the daily newspapers carried the brief announcement of the murder in the stop press. He took a taxi to New Scotland Yard, collected all the senior officers on duty, explained the details of the tragedy.

Until the roar of traffic told that London had awakened to another day, the men sat round a table advancing arguments and theories. At nine o'clock they summoned the Commissioner of Police. Sanderson, for the latter part of the time, sat in silence. Many times before he had played hunches. But the idea running through his brain now was one with which his colleagues would not agree. Then a message came down from the "dabs" department to say that distinct prints of a thumb and index finger had been found on the card pinned to Peel. The disconcerting news soon followed that the prints could not be traced to any person whose "dabs" were lodged with the Yard.

"That means for a certainty that Winter did it," said the commissioner. "As far as we know, that man has never been pulled in. Get copies of those prints made, and we'll start work."

At ten-fifteen that morning those who turned on their wireless sets for the morning service received a shock. Scotland Yard and the British Broadcasting Corporation had broken fresh ground. Only once before in history had a police S.O.S. message been sent out for a murderer. But never had such an announcement prefaced the service, nor had a wireless announcer ever broadcast an appeal so dramatically directed to an unknown person.

"Here is a police message," declaimed the announcer. "During recent months the public has been well acquainted with the criminal activities of a person known as Ray Winter. This man is now wanted for murder. Anyone possessing information which may lead to the discovery of the man's identity or any person with information about him of any kind whatever, is urgently requested to communicate immediately with New Scotland Yard, Whitehall 1212, or any police station."

Sanderson heard the message, shook his head dolefully, and lit a cigarette. For minutes he sat with his shoulders hunched, staring at the swirling waters of the Thames.

Not more than a mile away from Scotland Yard a girl turned on the wireless as a morning ritual so that her mother could hear the service. The announcer spoke.

The girl blanched, shrieked, spun round on her heels, and collapsed with a crash, sprawled across the hearth.

A little farther west a man stood at the side of a portable set, and a smile settled down over his mouth as he listened. Then he rubbed his hands together gleefully, and commenced to hum a sprightly tune. The morning sky was overcast, but the day looked good to him.

Not far to the north a manservant brought the story of the sudden S.O.S. to his employer who was still reclining in bed, reading a paper. The clothes flashed back as the man cursed. Ten minutes later he was bathed and dressed. Some of the colour had left his face. But his hands were steady, his eyes gleaming, his mouth like a slit.

In Bruton Street, Mrs Peel listened to the S.O.S. and sobbed convulsively.

At the Yard the commissioner heard it, and hoped for the best. In Northumberland Avenue House the call was heard by Mr Edward Sims, M.P., and he made up his mind to raise the matter in the House.

The call was repeated every two hours throughout the day.

3: Straight Bluff

SANDERSON had been the recipient of many shocks during his career at the Yard, but few staggered him as much as the one that came to him that afternoon. He had just returned from lunch, and was preparing for another trip to Bruton Street when his telephone rang.

"Call-box coming through," said the operator on the Yard switchboard. Sanderson was not impressed. Throughout the morning they had been receiving telephone calls and delivered messages from many sources. Not one had been of assistance. The Yard was being pestered by the usual host which follows an appeal for help. The imbeciles, fanatics, "public servants," and those with psychic vision had rallied to the aid of the Yard.

"Hallo," he called. "Inspector Sanderson here. Who Is that?"

"The man you want to meet. Ray Winter speaking!"

"Eh?"

"You heard me. This is Winter speaking. Thought you wanted to talk to me. I rang you up about this Peel murder."

"I certainly do want to talk to you. When can I meet you?"

The caller laughed.

"Is that a joke, Sanderson? Look here, are you in charge of the inquiry into the death of Peel?"

"Not absolutely. I'm just one of many. Are you going to tell me why you did it?"

"I am not. I telephoned you to let you know that I didn't do it."

"That doesn't sound very convincing."

"Maybe not, Sanderson. For the first time in my life I'm joining the forces of law and order. You can believe it or not, but it's true. A few times in my brief life people have pulled jobs and tried to fasten them on me. I've treated them as a joke. But the death of Peel is no joke, and I'm damned if I'll sit and play with my fingers while some fellow tries to fasten a murder rap on me. I wanted to tell you that while you're trying to discover who did it. I'm aiming at the same objective, but along different lines. Am I clear?"

"You're leaving crime to turn private detective?"

"Precisely, except that I'm not promising to use strictly legal methods. You have your own system, Sanderson, and I have mine. I don't mind who wins out first so long as my name's cleared. May seem funny to you to hear a criminal talking about clearing, his name. But to me there's nothing amusing about it If I find Peel's murderer to hand him over to you. All I ask in return for that is that my name is cleared publicly. How's that for a bargain?"

"I can't accept it. The drag-net is out for you already, and you'll be collected before you can start any inquiries. I can't see that you can do us any good. Why not give yourself up?"

"And take the short walk to the gallows just because you folk can't discover who murdered Peel, and because you've got to find a victim to save your faces? Never in your life. I may do foolish things occasionally, but I'm not a complete nitwit. Is that final— that you turn down the offer of my assistance?"

"I'm afraid so. My job is to see you behind the bars. That's all. When we meet it will be the end of your career."

"Maybe," said Winter softly, "and maybe not."

"You mean that you might murder me, and that would be the end of my career? I had thought of that as a possibility."

"Sanderson," snapped the man, "I am no killer, but if I meet the man who rubbed out Peel and tried to pin me with the murder I'm not giving any guarantees about his prospects of a long life."

"Have you got any idea of who did it— since you say you didn't?"

"There are one or two ideas straying round my brain. I'm not going to hang on this line until you've sent a Squad car round to the phone box so I'll repeat what I said. I did not murder Peel and I intend to discover who did. Whether I hand him over to the police or not is a matter I have still got to decide. Good-afternoon―"

"Just wait for a―" Sanderson stopped. He heard the click at the other end as the receiver was replaced. The inspector ran his fingers through his hair, and sighed. Some minutes elapsed before he rose from his chair, and walked along to the commissioner's office. The face of that mogul changed colour several times as be listened to the account of the conversation with Winter.

"Fancy the man having the nerve to think that we'd fall for a story like that," he spluttered as Sanderson finished.

The inspector eyed him steadily.

"The singular thing is that I do believe him."

The commissioner swung round on his swivel chair, and gasped. "Are you feeling ill?" he asked.

"No, quite normal, sir. He's no ordinary man. I have told you that many times before. If he had committed that murder he would have never communicated with us. But, on the other hand, if he had murdered Peel he wouldn't be the person I think he is."

"You want to brush some of the cobwebs from your eyes, Sanderson. I'm sure they're obstructing your view. The sooner you stop being sloppily sentimental about this man the more I'll think of you as a detective."

The inspector bit his lips, bowed, and left the office. His fists were clenched as he hurried along the corridor. He would not be able to swallow much more from the commissioner, and any trouble would mean a rapid exit from the Yard. It was not the first time that Sanderson had caused a minor riot in the building.

The inspector joined the other officers at Bruton Street, but when darkness fell the solution was as far away as ever. Only one clue had arisen, and that had vanished in a cloud of doubt.

At half-past eleven Mr Peel had received a telephone call from a public box. But apart from verifying that the call had been made the exchange could offer no help. The call had lasted for three minutes. Nothing else was known.

Sanderson strolled gloomily into a public house, ordered a drink, and slid into a chair at the snack bar. He felt miserably depressed. Tiredness came over him, and he walked to the Yard, struggling to keep awake. On his desk a note awaited him:

"See the commissioner immediately."

The inspector swore, and trailed along the corridor. He found the chief sitting back with a broad smile spreading over his red face.

"You wanted to see me, sir?"

"I did. Pop over to Cannon Row and have a look at your hero. Winter has given himself up!"

The office swirled in front of the inspector's eyes. Desk, chairs, filing cabinets, revolved in an unsteady dance.

"He has given himself up?" he asked dazedly.

"That's what I said. He walked into Bow Street and submitted to arrest less than an hour ago. What have you got to say now?"

"Nothing at the moment. Has he made a statement?"

"Yes, denying that he had anything to do with the murder of Peel. I don't think a denial will be enough of a defence to save him from the gallows. I suppose he's trying to bluff his way through— just gave himself up when he knew that arrest was certain at any moment."

"That doesn't sound like Winter to me, sir."

"I didn't think it would. That's why I sent for you. Perhaps by now you'll stop thinking about him as a cross between Lochinvar and Sir Galahad. It might be as well for you to walk over the road and have a look at him. Maybe he'll talk to you since you're the only person in the building he wants anything to do with. Try it"

"I certainly will Have they taken his prints?"

"Half an hour ago. I'm waiting for the report now."

"H'm. That should settle quite a lot of arguments. Did he say why he had given himself up?"

"As far as I know he's said precious little. Perhaps, Sanderson, you might be successful with your great persuasive powers."

The inspector opened his mouth to speak, closed it again. Small veins were pulsing on his temples. The commissioner smiled. Then, suddenly, he was alone. The door banged, and Sanderson had gone.

A group of detectives stood talking in Cannon Row Police Station. They grinned cheerfully as Sanderson joined them.

"Come to take a peep at your boy friend?" asked a superintendent.

"Just that," said the inspector. "Lead me to him."

At the second cell a policeman stood on guard outside the door. As Sanderson approached he unlocked the gate, and saluted. The inspector walked in. A young man sat on the bench, his face turned away from the door. He wore a light-grey suit, immaculately tailored, and black hair, well groomed and curly, accentuated the pallor of the visible portion of his face. He made no move as Sanderson drew nearer to him.

"Hallo," said the inspector. "Feeling bashful all of a sudden, eh?"

Then the prisoner turned round. His eyes were untroubled. There was no sign of emotion in their brown depths. The regular features were placid, the lips alone advertising feeling as they twisted with a humorous cynicism. Sanderson looked down at the white, well-manicured hands, from there to the silk shirt and collar.

"So you are the man who calls himself Ray Winter, eh?"

"If I'm not I'll charge the Force with wrongful arrest," said the man, easily smiling.

"You can't do that. You gave yourself up."

"I know. It might have been in an instant of mental aberration. Even the balance of the most normal man is liable to upset"

"Why did you surrender to the police?"

"I felt sorry for them. I listened to their appeals for help until I could stand it no longer. It began to resemble the hectic appeal made to the Dominions on the eve of Chanak. My heart went out to them. It seemed so unfair that I should be the cause of so much worry and anxiety among you. As a gentleman my course was clearly indicated. I felt that I was a burden on the lives of the entire force. Once that view was accepted by my mental responses it merely remained for me to choose my police station. There is a sentiment about such things."

"And that's why you chose Bow Street?"

"Precisely. My first romance arose from a meeting at a Covent Garden dance, and as Bow Street Police Station almost faces that building I thought I owed some small debt of gratitude to that neighbourhood "

Sanderson grinned The man was bantering with the nonchalance of a bright young person balancing tea and essaying wisecracks at a Mayfair cake and bun fiesta. He was certainly living up to his form!

"Why did you murder Peel?"

The man waved his hands disparagingly, and coughed affectedly.

"Haven't you heard the good news that was taken from Aix to Ghent? I handed my body over to the minions of the law because I hadn't murdered Peel, and I didn't want my liberty to interfere with their investigations. It seemed to me that while I was at large they'd be looking for me instead of searching for the murderer. Now I have simplified the whole affair. Really, you should all feel most grateful."

"You know, of course that you have slung your neck into the noose?"

"It did occur to me that at first glance there was a chance of an early demise. But mature thoughts flooded my mind, and I realised that even the men at Scotland Yard can occasionally discover a murderer."

"Thanks. Have you got an alibi tied up in satin ribbon, and all ready to spring when things look a trifle hot?"

"Such things can always be produced."

"I rather suspected that's what would happen. Why not spill it now?"

"There is time for all things. Would you mind giving me a smoke? I understand that I still have certain rights, and I can hardly commit suicide with a cigarette."

Sanderson produced a packet, and the prisoner was lighting the smoke when a detective arrived at the gate of the cell and beckoned to the inspector. The guard opened the door, closed it again as Sanderson walked through. "The commissioner wants to sec you at once; sir."

"Come back when you feel like another chat," called the man in the cell. "You really are a most companionable bloke."

Sanderson hurried under the arch, through the grim entrance of the Yard. Since their last meeting the commissioner had changed very, very considerably. The satisfied smirk had vanished from his face. Now he sat with lines creasing his forehead, drumming on the desk with his fingers. The inspector had been in the office for a few seconds before the chief looked up.

"Sanderson," he said, "I've just received the report on those dabs."

"Yes, sir."

"The fingerprints taken from the man who has surrendered as Ray Winter have no connection with the prints found on that card. Further, the prints taken from this man, like those on the card, are not to be found among the criminals recorded. What do you say about that?"

"Nothing, except that it is just about what I expected."

"But why?"

"Because, long before I got that telephone call I formed the idea that whoever Winter was he was not a murderer."

"Have you talked to him?"

"Yes, but I'm going back now to listen some more. I'm not satisfied."

"Not satisfied about what? Don't be so darned mysterious."

"Sir, it seems that my views are not very acceptable in this building. That being so, I think, in fairness to myself, it would be better for me to remain dumb until I've got something definite to talk about."

The commissioner gulped and made no reply. Sanderson walked out.

"Well, well, here we are again!" said the prisoner as the cell door opened. "I thought you might return to the fold."

"I have. And this time we'll cut out all the foolery and talk sense for a while," said the inspector. He turned to the guard. "You can take a walk for a few minutes. I want to speak to the prisoner alone."

The constable walked away. The order was not displeasing to him. "And are we going to get really confidential now?" asked the man.

"Don't smile about it. You may think the present arrangements amuse you. Maybe that's why you're smiling. A death sentence is apt to wipe the grin from any man's face. We're not gang to frame anything against you— the British police don't do things like that But you'll find that you've walked into a tough spot if you play the fool any longer."

"An idea of that sort occurred to me a while ago. What's the remedy?"

"Very simple. Tell your tale, and see what happens."

"I've told my tale. This is what's happened. I am Ray Winter. I did not murder Peel. What else can I say?"

"Plenty. What were you doing last night from quarter to twelve until quarter past?"

"Dancing."

"Where, and with whom?"

"In the West End with a most delectable lady."

"Very helpful. You might as well have been in an East End cinema with a charming girl. I want the names of places and people."

"That's too bad. Such is my affection for the lady that I couldn't mention her name in a police cell. In a minor way, I have a regard for the place where we danced— so why drag them in?"

"Are you heading for the gallows all for the love of a lady and a dance hall?"

"No, no. Like all great men, I insist on dying for my principles."

"You're hopeless— absolutely hopeless."

"My companion told me that many times that night. It must be catching. Could you try another signature tune? The record's dreadfully worn."

"How are you going to convince me that you are Ray Winter?"

"If I'm not. why on earth should I surrender to you blokes?"

"That man isn't without friends. You maybe one of them."

"Think I'd go to the gallows to lend a hand to a friend?"

"No, but if you are not Ray Winter, and he told you that if you held the fort he would clear himself, and see that no harm came to you. it's possible that you might arrive here. Follow me?"

"With an effort. Sanderson. I'm changing my mind about you. At first I thought you were a well-meaning copper with a streak of honesty. Now I can see that you've got brain as well. A most unusual combination! After that speech hand me another cigarette."

"Tell me, are you Ray Winter, or are you not?" asked the inspector.

The prisoner took the cigarette, lit up, and smiled slowly.

"Work it out for yourself." he said. "I'm sleepy. Good-night."

4: Police Court Interlude

THE following morning it was impossible to get within 20 yards of the entrance doors to Marlborough Street Police Court. The news of Ray Winter's arrest had spilt much ink over the front pages of the morning papers. Reporters overflowed from the Press seats to park themselves in the accommodation behind the counsel and solicitors in the body of the court. The public gallery was full half an hour before the stipendiary took his seat.

Proceedings had lasted half an hour, the magistrate filing through the usual list of drunks and worse. There was an air of tension in the court. The last West End carouser paid his fine and ambled out of the building. The gaoler called: "Number Eleven."

The prisoner from Cannon Row Police Station stepped nimbly up the steps into the dock. The magistrate adjusted his spectacles and took a long look at him. Reporters' pencils waggled. The clerk of the court turned to the prisoner:

"You have declined to give your name? Is that so?"

"Perfectly accurate." The man stood with his hands on the top rail of the dock, looking at the clerk with an amused expression.

"And you still refuse to reveal your identity?"

"That is so."

"Are you legally represented?" asked the magistrate.

"No. your worship. I have no intention of engaging or applying for legal aid." "Having regard to the nature of the charge which will be read to you in a moment. I would strongly advise you to engage legal opinion."

"Thank you for your courteous consideration. I have given the matter some thought. My view is that the moment has not arisen when I require assistance of any sort."

The magistrate sat back on his huge seat and abandoned the effort. Detective-inspector Sanderson strode into the witness-box after the clerk had read the charge, announced that the prisoner had entered Bow Street Police Station and surrendered. and was subsequently charged with the murder of Mr William Peel.

"On that evidence." said the Yard man, "I apply for a seven days remand."

"Have you anything to say?" inquired the magistrate of the prisoner.

"There are one or two minor matters would like to mention, sir."

"Before you say anything. I again advise you to seek legal aid. You are faced with a capital charge, and it might be that a conference with a legal adviser would alter your view with regard to any statement you might on template making."

"I thought I had stated most plainly that I do not desire that form of assistance. I -will be quite brief, as I do not wish to occupy the time of the court unnecessarily. In the first place, I reiterate that I know nothing whatever about the lamentable death of William Peel. In the second place. I refuse now, and at all times, to reveal to the police my name and address. It is for them to discover such facts. In the third place. I wish to thank Inspector Sanderson for the courtesy he has shown towards me since I surrendered to the police. Lastly, I desire to be informed as soon as possible what my position will be during the period of the remand with regard to the reception of intending visitors."

"No doubt you will receive information with regard to the last matter in the immediate future. I pass no comments upon the other points you mention. You will be remanded for seven days."

"Thank you, sir."

An officer touched him on the shoulder, and he turned to smile at Sanderson before hurrying down the steps to the cells. The Yard man walked through to see him, found him puffing contentedly at a cigarette, awaiting the arrival of the "Black Maria."

"What on earth are you trying to do?" he asked the prisoner. "If you had made up your mind to commit suicide by hanging you couldn't make a better job of it. Why not lay your cards on the table? I'll give you a clean break. You can trust me to do that, can't you?"

"Of course I can. But the present game amuses me. When I grow tired of it I'll think of something else. Until then, carry on with the odd spot of investigation until you've collected the man who killed Peel. When you've done that I might have a heart-to-heart talk with you."

"Is there nothing you can tell me that might help?"

"Surely an expert like you wouldn't apply for assistance to a simple-minded amateur? I think you're losing your grip, Sanderson."

"Ay, well, either you're right in the head or I'm not. And I'm ready to back myself. If you change your mind when you've bedded down at Brixton, you might tell the prison governor. Then I'll trot along and listen to the confession."

"I'm thinking that you'll have a long wait, Sanderson; the approaching footsteps are, I believe, conveying one of my temporary servants here to tell me that my carriage awaits. I don't know what my at-home day will be when I go into residence at my Brixton mansion. but you'll receive an invitation in due course. Adios."

The inspector watched his departure with mixed feelings. The man was a complete enigma, a walking example of what cold nerve could be when carried to the nth.

AS SANDERSON made his way back to the Yard, a stranger entered the ornate offices of Imperial Travel Ltd., of Oxford Circus, and walked over to the grill screening the inquiry desk.

"I wish to see the gentleman who arranges your air transport," he said. "The name is Whitehead."

The name certainly didn't suit the man. His hair, such of it as showed beneath the felt hat, was swarthily black. The girl clerk looked at him, and let her glance linger. In some distant way he reminded her of a film star.

She called over a diminutive page.

"This gentleman wishes to see Mr Hopkins."

"Come this way," said the youth, struggling with a voice that wavered between soprano and basso profundo. The visitor followed him across the marble hall to the lift, shot upwards to the third floor. The lad shot the man into a waiting-room and vanished, to return a moment later. The man followed him along the corridor to the room at the end. The page opened the door, and a young man rose from his desk.

"I am Mr Hopkins," he said. "You wish to see me?"

"Please. But first of all let me say that this visit is upon confidential matters. I take it that you are not in the habit of carrying business communications outside the office?"

Mr Hopkins appeared a little pained as he shook his head.

"Splendid. In your vast organisation you have a fleet of private aeroplanes open for charter. That is so?"

"Yes. They are, of course, separate from our ordinary passenger services. But we have maintained that private fleet for some years."

"Precisely. A friend of mine, Sir Edgar Murray, has often used your service, and has repeatedly advised me to follow suit."

"That is very kind of Sir Edgar."

"Yes. But, so far, he has never inveigled me into travelling by air. though now, I am afraid, I will have to, whether I want to or not. That is why I called to see you."

"Chartering a private plane is, of course, expensive."

"Really? From what Sir Edgar told me of the payments he made, I thought your firm was most reasonable."

Mr Hopkins retired respectfully.

"The fact is that earlier this week I was supposed to cross the Channel with Sir Edgar on a business deal. I refused to travel with him the other day when he went by air because I thought the deal would hold fire until I crossed in my usual way. Now I find that events have progressed too rapidly for me. I have got to be there this afternoon or early evening. I don't relish the idea, but that means I must fly. Of course, I'll be taking exactly the same trip that Sir Edgar made. I won't mention names— even walls have ears. And I'd like to travel with the same plane and pilot. Sir Edgar has spoken highly of both, and that might give me the confidence I need."

"Wait one moment, sir, while I make inquiries."

The visitor looked round the room and smoked while Mr Hopkins waited for a trunk call. Some minutes elapsed before he spoke over the wire, but the conversation was short and to the point.

"That will be arranged, sir," he said, replacing the receiver. ''Mr Forbes, our pilot, will be waiting for you at the aerodrome at two o'clock. Our private car will pick you up at your house at one o'clock.

"No. no. I can't bother about returning home now. I have a couple of conferences in the city. I'll get my man to collect some gear, and I'll be here at one o'clock."

"You will be going alone, sir?"

"Yes."

"The charge, in that case, will be a hundred and twenty pounds."

"Very good. I have to call at the bank on my way. I'll pay in cash shortly before one o'clock. Good morning."

The stranger certainly kept his word. At five minutes to one he handed an hundred and twenty pounds to Mr Hopkins, at the hour he was seated in the car, complete with light luggage, at two he shook hands with a certain Mr Larry Forbes, and four minutes later the small plane rose from the aerodrome and headed south.

The passenger showed no signs of the nervousness he had mentioned. Perhaps his thoughts. were too much centred on the man who was behind the bars in Brixton Prison!

At five minutes to three the plane passed over the French coast. Shortly afterwards Larry Forbes turned round and shouted to his passenger:

"That's Gris Nez we've just passed. Been this way before?"

"Yes. but not by air."

The pilot spoke no more as they swung to the east and flew for half an hour close to the Belgian border.

"Roubaix." he called pointing below. The flat country spread below them monotonously. But not long afterwards Forbes pressed on the control stick, and the nose of the plane dipped. Three or four miles ahead, the passenger saw a straggling mass of houses.

"Valenciennes." called Forbes.

Two minutes later they taxied along the flat surface of a field and stopped. The pilot pulled the leather helmet from his head, loosened his coat, and clambered out of the cockpit. His passenger followed.

"Any place where we can have a drink. Forbes? I feel a bit shaken after that. I'm not used to it."

"You don't look very upset. I found an estaminet along the road when I brought Sir Edgar. I'll show you the place if you like."

"Thanks. I'll leave the luggage here for the time being. It'll be safe enough. Very out-of-the-way spot."

"That's what I thought when Sir Edgar told me to land here. I thought we might strike trouble with the authorities for making an unlawful landing, but he said we wouldn't. And he was right."

"I can think of better places to land." said the passenger as they walked across the field. "What's that shed in the next field? It looks a bit familiar to me."

"I was curious about it. too. There's no mystery about the place. It's exactly what it looks like— a small aerodrome. Odd spot to park a plane— but folks please them selects in these days. I pointed it out to Sir Edgar, but he didn't seem too pleased to hear me talking about it. so I backed out. Never run your head into a brick wall."

"You made good time today. What time did you arrive with Sir Edgar?"

"Must have been about four in the afternoon."

"Did you come straight back?"

"Yes, almost. I left again about five, and parked the plane in bed before eight. Bad job about Mr Peel, isn't it?"

"Very. Sir Edgar must be very upset about it."

Larry Forbes twisted his head round and stared at his passenger.

"You think so, sir?" he inquired.

"Why? Don't you"

"I'd rather not say. One of the men was my boss, and the other was a good customer. My job is to fly a plane, and keep my mouth closed."

"This estaminet seems a fair tramp from your parking ground."

"You'll find it just round this bend. Feeling better now?"

"A little. I'm just puzzling over what I shall do now I'm here."

"I thought you were carrying on somewhere to meet Sir Edgar."

"My arrangements aren't definite yet. Ah, now I see your estaminet."

They sat down at a table outside the cafe. The pilot ordered a grenadine, the passenger a vermouth. Both lit cigarettes.

"Will the death of Mr Peel make any difference to the firm, Forbes?"

"I don't think so. If there is any change it will only affect our side of it. The normal travel services won't be troubled."

"What will happen to the air service then?"

"I thought you would have known more about that than I would. I am told that Sir Edgar Murray will take over the entire fleet lock, stock and barrel. I hope that won't mean the sack for me."

"Eh— I knew he was interested, but I never thought the deal would have come off."

"It never would have done if Mr Peel had lived."

The passenger gripped the Vermouth glass until patches of white showed under his fingernails.

"Sir Edgar is a curious man. I never could see why he wanted this fleet of planes. Of course, it's no good asking him. How many have you?"

"Sixteen. They'd be very useful to him, but I'm not certain that I'd Dice to pilot one of them when they left Imperial Travel."

"Feel strange and lonely working for somebody else?"

"No, it's not that." Larry Forbes tilted his chair back, and sat staring into space. His next words came almost as though he spoke without realising it.

"No, it's not that. But I wouldn't like the job of smuggling arms into every European and Near Eastern country where they were barred. One day the crash will come, and I don't mean to be in it." He stopped abruptly, and looked at his passenger. "Have another drink. Mr Whitehead? We mustn't talk shop. It really isn't done."

"I'll dive into another Vermouth with pleasure."

Forbes beckoned to the garçon de comptoir, ordered the drinks.

The passenger was smiling.

"You look better now," said the airman. "Wonderful what a drink will do."

"Amazing what different things do act as stimulants," said the other ambiguously.

There was silence for a while. Forbes commenced to whistle. The other man played with his glass, looking at his companion occasionally with sharp glances, as though trying to assess him. Finally, he spoke:

"You're not very fond of Sir Edgar Murray, are you?"

"There are people I like better. But why talk about that?"

"I had a good reason for asking you. How would you like to earn a solid hundred in cash for doing an easy spot of work?"

"That's the sort of story they tell children who won't sleep."

"This is not a bedtime story, Forbes. I'll tell you what I want to know. You brought Sir Edgar here, and flew back shortly afterwards. I want to know what he did. I've got an idea playing round in my head that he flew back to England shortly after you left. If you can find out for me exactly what happened I'll give you the hundred."

"But I thought you were a friend of his, a business associate. Why on earth do you want to know that?"

"The hundred will answer that question. Since I saw that aerodrome here I've become convinced that he flew back to England almost on your tail. I can't very well find out whether that is so, but you can. The folks here will tell you who owns that aerodrome, and they'll tell you who flies the plane. Well, you're a pilot yourself. If you get hold of that man you could find out in five minutes whether he flew Sir Edgar back shortly after his arrival. What do you say?"

"But why should he fly back like that? There's no point in it―"

"The hundred would answer that question as well. You're taking no risk of any sort, so why refuse easy money?"

"Hold your hosses, Mr Whitehead. I'm all bewildered. Tell me, what's the catch? I keep smelling a rat, but I can't see one."

"Because there isn't one. I've told you all I want to know. Find out for me the time at which he left here, the place where he landed in England, and the time, and the name of the pilot who took him, and I'll give you a hundred. There are no strings to the offer, Forbes."

The pilot smiled as he emptied his glass, and rose to his feet.

"Sit tight for a while, Mr Whitehead, and I'll do a spot of sleuthing."

The passenger watched him as he walked into the estaminet, made some inquiries, and then walked down the lane towards the aerodrome. He looked at his watch, and ordered another drink. His face had lost some of its hard lines, the brown eyes had mellowed in expression. For more than half an hour he sat at the table.

Then Larry Forbes appeared in view. His passenger waited apprehensively, fingering his glass impatiently.

"Looks to me as though you've got to hand over that hundred, Mr Whitehead. I've done my stuff and carried the prize away."

"Sounds like good news. Sit down and tell me all about it."

"That won't take along. The pilot is Henri Demoulier. He flies mostly for fun, and occasionally for profit. On a few occasions he has taken Sir Edgar Murray for trips round the Continent. Twenty minutes after I left here he started back to London with Sir Edgar. The arrangement had been made by telephone earlier in the day. They landed at Heston shortly before nine o'clock. Demoulier immediately turned round and flew back. That's all you wanted to know?"

"Absolutely. My congratulations. Now well fly back to London."

"Hell's bells! Are we all going mad, or what is it?" asked Forbes.

5: The Prisoner Talks

TWO days elapsed, and Sanderson was puzzled and irritated. For the third time that day the commissioner wanted to see him. The inspector cursed as he strode along to the office.

"Hallo, Sanderson," said the chief, "I've just had a message through from' the Public Prosecutor's office. It seems that all is not what it should be — in fact, very far from it."

"I take it that they've told you that there's no case at all against, the man you've got in Brixton Prison?"

"H'm. You seem to be a fairly good guesser."

"You don't have to guess," said Sanderson wearily. "I've been saying ever since the man was charged that there was no evidence against him. For two days I've worked like the devil trying to get enough to make even a flimsy case. What have I got? Nothing. If you put that man before a magistrate on the strength of an anonymous note and the card on Peel's jacket, you'll hear things that won't improve your health."

"Sanderson," snapped the man, slightly choleric, "you've forgotten that you're talking to the Commissioner of Police."

"I haven't," said the inspector. He had taken all he could stand. "All I know is that a hurricane will fall on this building when you have to order the release of that man, and withdraw the charge. If he wants to take any action he could call a hot tune. Don't forget that he did not give himself up for the murder. He surrendered because the police wanted him. He didn't ask to be charged. If you have to admit that you never had sufficient evidence to justify that charge you are facing an action for unlawful arrest. Had you thought about that?"

"Had I thought about it? Am I the only person in the entire Metropolitan Force who is supposed to use his brain? What about you?"

"I certainly thought of it. I was opposed from the start to the idea that Winter had murdered Peel, and I did not agree that he should be charged. You can't blame me, sir, when the Public Prosecutor tells you that you haven't got a shred of evidence against the man."

"Well, who is to blame? Tell me that."

"That's a task I'd rather leave to other people, sir."

"H'm. I suppose that means you consider I am responsible?"

"Those in a position of authority have to take responsibility."

"That isn't what you meant at all Sanderson."

"Perhaps not. What do you wish to do about the case? The longer we hold that man, the worse we make things for the Yard, and the more difficult we will find it to make excuses."

"Why not charge him with some of the things we know Winter has done, and hold him on those matters while we complete our inquiries into the other case?"

"If it were not impossible, that would be a simple remedy?"

"Impossible? I can't understand you, Sanderson. Are you deliberately trying to baulk every suggestion I make?"

"Certainly not. I would have been only too glad to agree that your suggestion would get us out of the worst tangle I've ever known the Yard to be in. But it won't."

"Since you know so much about these things, perhaps you'll explain to me why my scheme is so impossible?"

"The two explanations are fairly obvious. I'll take the lesser important first— although under ordinary circumstances it would be of staggering importance. That man has been charged with murder, and is now in custody under remand. Have you thought what the Public Prosecutor would say if you suggested that a man awaiting trial on a capital charge should be brought into a magistrate's court and charged with minor offences committed prior to the alleged murder? It's impossible."

"I suppose it is," said the commissioner, deflating like a burst balloon. He had not graduated into his job through the police service.

"And add to that the fact," continued Sanderson ruthlessly, "that we have not yet identified the man as Winter, and cannot prove one single thing against him. How can you charge an unknown man with committing crimes popularly attributed to another unknown? If it amuses that man to tell us that he is Winter, he might be charged with wasting the time of the Force. But that's all you've got against him."

"I know, I know This case is getting worse and worse. What do you think should be done. Sanderson?"

The Inspector shook his head grimly. He had not caused the confusion, had taken no hand in creating the trouble. Nor had he forgotten that the commissioner was only thawing after three days of temper, three days during what he had had to accept insults without retorting.

"I'm afraid that I can't help you, sir."

"I'll walk over and see the Public Prosecutor," said the chief. "He may be able to suggest some way out of it."

The telephone bell rang, and the commissioner sighed wearily as he picked up the receiver. His eyes brightened as he listened. The man's attitude had changed. Some of the despondency had wafted from him.

"That was the Governor of Brixton Prison on the fine." he said to Sanderson. "The man charged with the murder has passed a communication to him. He wants to make a statement, but says that he will make it to no other person than you. I told the governor— as you have heard— that you would get down there immediately and talk to the man."

"Strange that he should have taken so long making up his mind about delivering a statement I don't like the sound of it."

"For heaven's sake, don't say that, Sanderson! This may give us a chance, to get out of the tangle in one way or another. He may even want to make a confession. These strange things do happen at times."

"I know," said the inspector acidly, "but not in this case. I don't think, somehow that he wants to talk .about anything that will be very helpful to us He just didn't strike me as that kind of man."

"Never mind. Hurry alone there and use your brain to get us out of this tangle. Unless something is done in the next few hours the place will fall round our ears."

"I noticed that the question asked in the Commons yesterday were not altogether flattering. And the answers didn't strike me as worthy of framing in this building."

"Don't I know it! Get alone to Brixton, Sanderson, and do the best you can . We're relying on you to straighten things out."

The inspector smiled sardonically and strolled out of the office. A few minutes later a car pulled out under the arch and turned on the Embankment Sanderson sat back staring at the traffic on the Thames. He was anxious to meet the curious young man at Brixton.

Sanderson was led to one of the visitors rooms, and had not been there for long when the door opened and a warder appeared with the prisoner. His time in gaol had not sat heavily upon him. There was the same air of self-assurance, the same ready smile. He shook hands with the Yard man as though receiving him as a guest.

"Hallo, sleuth!" he said. "Thought it was time I had a chin-wag with you. How's the wicked world of crime carrying on in my absence?"

"Very little change."

Sanderson looked at the man more closely. For days he had wondered where he had seen that face before. The image was elusive, but behind his mind  was the definite recollection of having seen the man long before they met in Cannon Row.

"Find me good to look at?" asked the man.

"Partially. I was wondering where I had seen you before— before you surrendered to the police. Where did we meet?"

The man bit his lip, appeared disconcerted.

"Forget it," he said hurriedly. "I sent for you because I want to make a statement. Are you ready to take it down?"

"Certainly. I'll warn you first, that any statement you might make will be taken down―"

"And used in evidence. I know that one. Are you ready?"

"Carry on, but don't travel too quickly. I m no shorthand scribe."

"I'd hate to distress you. Stop me when the tongue grows loose with speed. Here you are, then: I desire to give an account of my movements on the night when William Peel was murdered. At eight o'clock on that evening I met Miss Clare Wilson, of Clemence Road, Streatham, calling for her at her home. We arrived in the West End at eight-thirty. Got that all right, Sanderson?"

"Yes, that pace suits me well. Fire away."

"We dined in the restaurant at the Morland Hotel, Piccadilly, and later went to the New Gallery Cinema. I've forgotten what film we saw. I was not interested. I took the girl along as an act of mercy. We left the cinema shortly after half-past ten and ambled along to the dance at Ranee's Club, Dean Street. We found the place foully dull, and after half an hour we deserted the spot and parked our bodies in the Quartz Club, Old Compton Street. Things were a little better there, and we had quite a few dances.

"At midnight the kindly proprietors gave a spot prize with the lights out. You know the idea— the prize doesn't matter, but the absence of lights gives a thrill to the young. Curiously enough, I won that prize. I received a box of cigarettes. Miss Wilson was given a powder compact. The prizes were handed to us at approximately twelve-fifteen. Since that covers the whole of your ground there's no need for me to tell you how we spent our time afterwards." Sanderson finished writing.

"You're telling me that the owners of the Quartz Club can swear that you were there from about eleven until a quarter after midnight?"

"And even until one o'clock!" "If we collect some of the folks who were there that night, would you object to standing in a row for an identification parade?"

"So long as Miss Clare Wilson is not dragged in I don't mind."

"You know, of course, that if this alibi is proved you are instantly innocent of the charges against you?"

"So I surmised. That's why I sent for you."

"Why on earth didn't you make this statement at the commencement of the trouble? Then you'd never have been charged. As it is, you've landed the Yard into a tangle, and provided the front pages of the papers with stories about the surrender of Ray Winter."

The man smiled, and waved his hands as though baffled.

"I can't understand what made me do it," he said, still smiling.

"You can't sell that line of talk to me. My own view is that you've got a darned good knowledge about why you did it. Spill it."

"Never on your life, Sanderson. But you're quite right. I don't usually go to gaol for the pleasure of meeting new company. I had got a cause and a reason for closing my mouth when I handed myself over. One day before long you'll know why I did it Then you'll understand a lot that s mystifying you at the moment When can I leave here?"

"The only filing we can do is to withdraw the charge against you at Marlborough Street when you come up on remand. Until then we can do. nothing. It'll be the first time in Britain, I should think, that a murder charge has ever been withdrawn without a charge of manslaughter taking its place. You'll have to be content with that"

"All right I'll see you at the police court."

"Just one moment. Have -you forgotten that you surrendered yourself as Ray Winter, and that there are half a dozen matters outstanding under that name? It doesn't follow that because you've beaten the murder rap you won't stand faced with other charges. Maybe you'll be lucky to get five or seven years."

"We can leave that until the time arrives. You never know, Sanderson. I might beat that lot just as easily as I have the murder charge."

"I doubt it. Perhaps I haven't got any evidence against you on the killing job, but you'd better recall that I've worked for a long time on the trail of Ray Winter, and I can add all sorts of odds and ends together. If you are really Winter I 'could tell a tale in the witness-box that would make the jury sit up and take notice."

"Could you, really?" asked the man, intently serious.

"I certainly could. I haven't worked for months for nothing."

The prisoner looked round at the warder and then lowered his voice.

"Sanderson," he murmured, bending forward on his seat, "if Winter found the murderer of William Peel for you, handed over to you a case that was cut and dried, do you think the shock of receiving the information would affect your memory, make you liable to forget filings that had happened in the past?"

The inspector stared straight into the man's eyes. He had dropped his nonchalance, his bantering. The man was worried.

"I think," whispered Sanderson, "that if Winter provided me with enough evidence on which to arrest the murderer I might consider that his gift to society counter-balanced most of his former acts. Don't forget I said, I might consider. There is no promise attached to this."

The man rose to his feet and gripped the inspector's hand warmly.

"I knew you were clean all the way through," he said. "If there were more men like you about there wouldn't be much crime. Thanks."

"How men like you fall into crime, I don't know. Good-morning."

The man stood watching Sanderson's departure. His eyes shone hopefully.

6: The Return of Sir Edgar

SIR EDGAR MURRAY arrived home with a fury of sound. He was cold, he had done no business, he was four hours overdue, he felt ill, he was hungry, he hadn't slept well. His opinions were broadcast through the family and the domestic staff. Certainly they soon knew that the lord and master of the house had returned from the Continent.

"Very sad about William Peel," said his wife.

"Yes, yes. I must telephone Mrs Peel immediately. I meant to do that as soon as I arrived, but nobody reminded me. I'll be with you later."

The armament king dialled the number of his study, erased the wrath from his voice to offer his sympathy to Mrs Peel, made another couple of calls and then sat at his desk with a satisfied smile on his face.

He was still dreaming of the immediate past and the eventual future when the bell rang for dinner, and he discovered that he had not changed. Broken from his reverie, he rushed into his suite and stripped.

An hour later, when dinner had concluded, Sir Edgar decided that an evening's work might reduce the overdraft of correspondence awaiting him. He left the dining-room and returned to his study. As he entered the room he shivered. It seemed unduly cold. Yet the fire was still burning. Then he heard a rustle of silk and looked towards the windows. One of the casement curtains was fluttering in the night breeze.

"What silly devil opened that window?" he asked himself as he walked across to close it. He slammed home the fastener, cursed his manservant for opening it, and settled down to work. Not long afterwards he read and reread a letter, decided that it would be advisable to telephone the writer immediately

He stretched out his hand for the instrument while still looking at the letter, groped for a second with his Angers and then looked up. The receiver was missing! Sir Edgar blinked and looked again. It was no hallucination. The cord lay on the floor. Slowly he bent and picked up the end. One look was sufficient.

The end of the cord  was frayed. Someone had cut through it and taken the receiver.

"What the―" he commenced, and ceased abruptly. Why should anyone want a telephone receiver? It seemed that some lunatic had been let loose. Why, a telephone receiver couldn't be of the slightest use to any one.

Without the instrument it was―

Sir Edgar Murray felt the floor swaying under him, saw the curtains revolve before his eyes as though attached to a roundabout His face was no longer florid. The jaw sagged, the eyes bulged, the unhealthy flesh was ashen He tottered backwards weakly and flopped into his chair. Then his arms spread over the desk and his head sank to rest on them. The shoulders quivered almost as though he cried.

Sir Edgar remembered now one use to which a telephone receiver can be put. He looked at the broken cord on the floor. It seemed to him that the cord grew and grew until it looked more like a rope, more like the sort of rope they―

He shook his head and rose unsteadily to his feet. He mustn't lose his control. Before long he might need all he owned, might find that the biggest fight of his life was starting, might even find that the fight for his life was starting. He stumbled across the room and poured out some brandy

THE OFFICER in charge of the outer office at New Scotland Yard heard the swing doors click back, and looked up. Then automatically he glanced at the clock. It was twenty minutes to ten. The newcomer wore a black felt hat. the brim turned down so that only his nose and mouth showed. A long raglan coat smothered him down to the knees. He walked, over to the desk confidently, laid a parcel on the ledge with care.

"I have brought this for Chief Detective-Inspector Sanderson," he said. "Please take the utmost care with it."

"Who are you? What is it?"

"The name is Murphy. Inspector Sanderson knows me. Tell him that on opening that parcel he'll find a note that will explain all he wants to know about the contents. I want the parcel opened as soon as you can get hold of the inspector." "No bomb or anything like that in it, is there?" asked the officer. "Hardly. There's something in there that the inspector will be very pleased to see. Tell whoever takes it to him that the contents are very important. It must not be shaken." "You sound like an anarchist," said the officer, grinning.

"Not me. There's no money in that trade. Good-night, officer."

"Good-night." The man placed the parcel at the back of his desk and rang for a messenger. Sanderson was putting on his hat and coat when the messenger arrived and laid the parcel on his desk.

"The gentleman said you were to be very careful with it, sir, and you'll find a note inside telling you all about it."

"What gentleman? Who brought it? What is it?"

"A gentleman named Murphy left it downstairs about five minutes ago. He said the contents were very valuable, and he wanted you to open it as soon as possible. That's all I know about it sir."

"Right. Thanks."

The messenger left and the inspector took off his coat and hat His name was printed on the brown paper in boldly inked letters. He looked at it for a while before unloosening the string. Beneath the paper was a box. obviously manufactured to hold shoes. He opened the lid cautiously. A typewritten note was spread across the box. He read it without raising it:

Underneath this note you will find a telephone receiver. On the receiver you will discern certain fingerprints. I do not desire to say more than this— that I am anxious to have those fingerprints compared with any discovered in connection with the murder of William Peel. In one hour I will telephone you in order that you can give me the result of the examination. If I find that I am right and there is a relationship between the two sets of prints I may find it possible to afford further assistance. When I telephone I will give the name of Murphy. If you make any attempt to discover the origin of the call and have me apprehended I will definitely withdraw my aid.

Murphy

Sanderson read through the note twice, wondered whether there was a catch in it anywhere. He took a pair of tweezers from the inkstand on his desk and raised the note. Whoever Murphy was, the man was no fool. Two long steel skewers had been thrust through the cardboard so that they formed a bridge across the box. The telephone receiver had been laid across them, and two further skewers had been placed above it to keep the receiver rigid, free from contact with any part of the box.

Sanderson took the box gingerly in his hands and walked along to the Fingerprint Department. In a few seconds he explained what he wanted done. Then he strolled back to his office and settled down anxiously to a period of waiting. Minutes crawled by as though time had stopped.

He lit cigarette after cigarette, rose constantly from his chair to pace the small room. A hundred questions streamed through his brain. Who was Murphy? Who did the receiver belong to? How did the man obtain it? What made him associate the prints— if any— with the Peel murder? How did he know clues that would provide further information? He could furnish no answers, and had almost abandoned the effort when the door opened and an expert entered from the "dabs" department. "We found the complete set of right-hand fingerprints on that receiver," he said.

"They were good ones, too."

"And?" queried Sanderson. His heart was quickening its beat.

"The thumb and index finger are identical with those found on the card pinned to William Peel!"

"Good heavens!" exclaimed the inspector. He could think of nothing else to say. The men stared at each other. Then both smiled simultaneously.

"I checked them both once again through the records," said the dabs man, "and we've got no trace of them. Is there anything else?"

"Let me have photographic enlargements of them as soon as you can.

"Right. Looks as though you're getting a break, sir."

"That remains to be seen. I've got some thinking to do."

Sanderson bent his elbow on the mantelshelf and pondered over the information. He looked at his watch. In twenty minutes the mysterious Murphy was due to telephone. Suddenly he rushed to his own telephone, asked for the London Telephone Exchange and called for the night controller. After a brief wait he was connected.

"This is Inspector Sanderson, of Scotland Yard. I want to ask you a question. If some person cut the receiver from a telephone, would the bell ring at the exchange until the receiver was replaced?"

"Yes, certainly. It would have the same effect as raising the receiver to make a call in the ordinary way."

"Thanks. Follow me closely. This is vitally important. Some time this evening— probably within the last two hours— a receiver was cut away from a phone somewhere in London. It is urgent that we should discover which telephone was dismembered. Would you ask all your exchanges to communicate with us immediately if they have discovered any line on their exchange making a persistent call and not giving a number?"

"It shouldn't be difficult to do that. I'll send the order round."

"Thank you."

SANDERSON cursed himself for not thinking of it earlier. He was still wondering whether the strain of the past few days had atrophied his brain when the bell on his instrument jangled.

"Hallo," he called. "Who is that?"

"Murphy speaking. Is that Inspector Sanderson?" The voice was slow and sonorous.

"Yes. Thanks for the parcel, Murphy."

"What's the news? If you tell me what's moving, I'll give a hand."

"You'll have to answer a few questions before I can give details to you. In the first place, who are you?"

"Why worry? Isn't Murphy good enough for you?"

"I can't tell secrets to an unknown person. Good Lord, man, I might be talking to the chap who did the murder!"

"That's hardly likely, seeing that I sent you the prints. Sanderson, you are in no position to dictate. There wouldn't be any secrets if I hadn't sent you that parcel. If you don't talk you'll hear no more from me. I can help you a lot, but I refuse to do another thing if you don't play the straight game with me. Do you talk or don't you?"

"All right. Murphy, I'll talk. We found a card pinned to the body of William Peel. On that card we discovered a thumb and an index fingerprint. Those prints are identical with those we have now discovered on the telephone receiver. It's a million to one that the last person to use that receiver pinned the note on William Peel."

"Thank heaven for that!" said the caller, and the inspector heard a deep sigh of relief waft over the line.

"In that case, Sanderson, I'll soon collect your man for you. Don't make any move yourself, or you'll spoil the whole show. Please remember that I can handle this job, and I'll see that you come in to make the kill. But let me play the cards in my own way, or you'll never lead the murderer to the long drop. In about two hours' time I'll give you another call. By this time you should be able to trust me. If you follow my directions implicitly you can break this case within twenty-four hours."

"Why are you so anxious to help? What does it matter to you?"

"Ask no questions, and you'll hear no lies. Are you prepared to take my offer on those terms or not?"

"It looks as though I'll have to. But suppose I find but before I hear from you the identity of the man who used that receiver?"

"I'm not worrying about that. It can't be done."

"Apparently you don't know much about what happens when you cut a receiver. I've already started the wheels rolling."

"They're likely to roll until they're worn out I'm no fool, inspector. The second I took that receiver off the instrument I placed a paperweight over the bar to take its place."

"You would!" said Sanderson grimly.

"I don't believe in overlooking things. Just one other small thing before I ring off. If my conversation to you over the line sounds at all ridiculous, take it down as I speak and then use only the first letters of each word. If circumstances are awkward for me it would be better that way."

"But what are you going to do?"

"Have patience, Sanderson. Light a smoke, have a sleep for an hour and then wake up in case I ring you. I may ask you to do something a bit odd, but don't worry about that. I'm more anxious to collect the murderer than you are, and odd moments have to be met with odd remedies."

"All right. Murphy. You're right. I can't call the tune. Suppose you fall into trouble— get killed, or anything. What happens then?"

"I'm posting a letter in a quarter of an hour telling you all I know. If I am murdered you can follow the trail yourself."

"You're a cute cuss. I'll be waiting to hear from you."

"Don't forget that childish code if I talk nonsense. So long."

7: In Evidence

THE last of Corinne Walters' guests left a trifle before midnight. The actress was sorry to see them leave. Since Ray Winter made his call the chiming of twelve made her distraught and nervous. She wanted company.

A few minutes later the maid made her final call, and Corinne slid between the silken sheets, hoping to find security in sleep. Her eyes were heavy with weariness. Insomnia gripped her For a time she tried to read. But letters and words ran into one another. Finally she switched out the bed light, sank her head into the pillow.

But not for long! Her quick ears picked up the sound of a scratch and she sat erect in the bed. A cold breeze fanned against her bare shoulders. She groaned. Footsteps drew near, steps so light that only could they be heard as they brushed over the pile on the carpet Her trembling hand rose and flicked at the light switch.

Corinne Walters had gone beyond the stage at which a scream is possible. The throat muscles contracted until she felt that breath was throttled and speech silenced. A man walked over towards the bed. He wore a black felt hat and a raglan coat. A crepe mask stretched across his face.

"You!" she sobbed. He bowed, took off his hat and sat down on the foot of the bed. The girl was wide-eyed with terror.

"Take things easily," he said. "I haven't come here to do you any harm. Wrap something round your shoulders while I close the window."

Quite unconcernedly he walked across the carpet and fastened the window. The actress, behaving like an automaton, slid a dressing-jacket over her shoulders and waited for his return. His actions were leisurely. It seemed that time meant nothing in his life.

"I want to talk to you about the events in this place on the night after I made my call. Make yourself comfortable while I ask you a few questions. You know me well enough to realise that I want the truth, and that you're not clever enough to bluff me."

"But— but why do you want to know anything about that?"

"That's my concern. At what time did Sir Edgar tell you that I had made a call on him after leaving you?"

"Early that morning."

"He was anxious to damage me. eh? Anxious to get some sort of revenge?"

"He talked a lot about what he would do to you if he had the chance."

"So I thought. When did you next hear from Sir Edgar?"

"Why should I tell you all this?"

"Six months in Holloway for bigamy seems to me a fairly pungent argument. Perhaps you don't see bigamy as a serious offence?"

"I thought we'd finished with all that."

"So did I. If I'd have been left alone I'd never have mentioned it."

Corinne's eyes opened wider, and she gaped at the man.

"But you're supposed to be in Brixton Gaol on a murder charge!"

"These things can always be arranged. When you spoke to Sir Edgar that morning, did he tell you that he was going abroad?"

"He told me that he was pretending to go that day, but he would fly over and come back so that he could have a talk to me about things. He said he'd leave again early in the morning."

A satisfied smile flickered over the man's lips. "Did you agree with that suggestion?"

"Of course I did. What else could I do?"

The fight had vanished from her. "At what time did he get to this place that night?"

"Just after nine. I told the manager I was ill, and my understudy went on for me. We talked things over for a couple of hours. I think we were both a bit frightened."

"At what time did he leave you? Think carefully before you answer."

"He had a business appointment, a secret appointment, just before twelve. He fixed it by telephoning the man from here."

"What time did he leave here, and what time did he get back?"

"He left about half-past eleven and came back about an hour later."

"I see. At what time did he catch his plane?"

"It was still dark. It must have been about four o'clock, I think."

"Have you heard from him since?"

"No. We have separated until we see how things are fixed."

"Now use your memory. What condition was he in when he left you at half-past eleven?"

"He seemed a bit excited; but that didn't surprise me. He was very worried about the papers he'd given you."

"What was he like when he came back?"

"I thought he'd had an accident. He was very white and shivery."

"Did he tell you where had had been, whom he had met?"

"No. I asked him, and he closed up like a clam. We had a row."

"You thought he had another woman in tow, eh?"

"Not exactly; but it all seemed funny to me. He was angry with me, too."

"Do you mind very much if I use that telephone at the side of your bed? I promised to ring up Inspector Sanderson at the Yard."

The actress almost laughed.

"I'm sure he'd be glad that Ray Winter takes an interest in him."

"As a matter of fact, he's quite a friend of mine. But he doesn't know that I am Winter. I do a few odd jobs for him at times and hand out a spot of advice. I'll ring him."

Corinne Walters stared unbelievingly as he dialled the number and asked for Sanderson.

Her astonishment increased as she listened to Winter's side of the conversation.

"Hallo?" called the inspector. "Is that Murphy speaking?"

"All right. Ronnie. Everything seems to indicate many more events developing."

"Wait a second while I write that down. Right. Go ahead "

Winter paused as though listening to a question. "All the evidence laid yesterday comes out right. I need nobody except Willis and Lucy to enter replies "

"Hang on Murphy. Right Go ahead."

The girl heard the blur of sound on the wire. That was all. She saw Winter frown as though faced by a problem

"See a competent tailor regarding excess surplus stock and notify your counsel."

Corinne also frowned. The man seemed to be talking balderdash.

"Wait, Murphy. I'm nearly up with you. Right. All clear

"Have any records given extra witnesses?"

"Just a moment. Good I've got that. Fire away."

"I'm lying low."

The actress looked more relieved. The Last comment sounded normal Winter waited for a second and concluded with a laugh.

"Don't overwork." he said and slammed down the receiver. "I don't think I'll trouble you any further Miss Walters You can go to sleep now and dream pleasantly about me and your remaining boy friends―"

"Why did you want all the information about Sir Edgar?"

"In my line of business we never know what information will be valuable, or when it might arrive. I make my living by having long ears and a retentive memory. Goodnight"

Corinne Walters watched him vanish through the window, heard the scrape of his boots on the wall as he slithered down the drainpipe. She was still sitting stiffly erect when the noise outside grew louder and Winter reappeared again.

'What's the matter now?" she asked. "What have you come back for?"

He strode over to the bed, his hand tucked in an inside pocket. He pulled out an envelope.

"I came back to give this to you. I meant to hand it over earlier. In fact. I returned the night after you gave me the letters. I had it in my pocket The time was a quarter to one. Sir Edgar was here with you. That's when the row was progressing about where hi bad been from eleven-thirty until twelve-thirty."

"And that's how you came to know about it!" gasped the actress.

"That is how I came to know much about many things— particularly about the curious news next day announcing that he had gone abroad."

"And what is there in the envelope for me?"

"Just a certified copy of your first marriage certificate. Burn it I don't want it. Good-night, beautiful."

And then he was gone.

Sanderson worked for three or four minutes, taking the initial letter from each word telephoned to him. Then he read the strange list:

'Arres timmo diate lycor innew alters actre ssany charg ewill do "

Within another two minutes he had struck dividing bars on the list:

"Arrest /immediately /Corinne /Walters /actress, /any /charge /will /do."

He pursed his lips and whistled. Corinne Walters was big game to shoot at. But the man with brain enough to telephone that message was no fool Sanderson rang up for a car and walked downstairs. He knew the woman's house: such knowledge was part of his work. Within a quarter of an hour a startled maid admitted him, and the actress came downstairs, swathed in a dressing-gown.

"What on earth is the matter, inspector?" she asked.

"I want you to put your clothes on and come with me to Scotland Yard, Miss Walters. We have been making an inquiry into certain matters, and there are one or two questions you could answer that might be of assistance to us. Probably we won't require your presence for more than an hour. I'm extremely sorry to worry you like this but the choice is not entirely left in my hands."

"But what's it all about? I've done nothing."

"I'll explain it all to you when we get to the Yard. Please hurry."

"And supposing I refuse to go with you?"

"Such publicity is very bad for actresses. I'm waiting."

"All right I'll be with you in ten minutes, inspector: but I think you ought to tell me what it's all about"

Before she returned to the Yard man she set fire to the copy of her marriage lines. Corinne Walters was taking no chances!

8: Rude Awakening

RAY WINTER walked along the dark pavements humming merrily. At last the world looked good to him. If the luck walked by his side for another couple of hours―

Sir Edgar Murray sat by the fire in his bedroom, shuddering. The room was not cold, nor was the man— externally. But a chill was freezing him from the neck downwards. For forty years he had boasted of self-confidence, had prided himself on a purposeful mind, on a calculating brain And where had these assets led him? He knew. That's why he shivered. He had overcalled his hand! Each time his wandering eyes glimpsed the telephone and strayed towards the frayed cord on the floor another shudder coursed along his spine.

So he had sat for hours, pondering over the impossible. It bewildered him. Once the news of Winter's arrest had been made public Sir Edgar had smiled with satisfaction, had rubbed his hands with pleasurable conceit at the thought that he had destroyed two birds with one stone. Now it looked as though the stone was a boomerang, as though it had turned in its flight and was heading back in his direction. He rose and walked aimlessly about the room.

As he stood staring at the telephone for the hundredth time the door of his dressing-room opened and Ray Winter stepped forward.

"Good evening Sir Edgar," he said. "I suppose you expected me?"

The munitions king stifled a sob and wheeled round. His hand shot up to his throat and he swayed on his feet.

"You!" he exclaimed, repeating, "You!"

"Even me. Sir Edgar. I needn't tell you why I've come, need I?"

"I— I don't feel well. My heart is bad. Go away."

"You're going to feel a lot worse, Sir Edgar." Each time Winter stressed the title with sardonic gusto.

"How did you get out of Brixton Prison?"

"I haven't been in it." He walked over to the trembling man until they almost touched. Sir Edgar saw a sudden flicker of Winter's hand, felt a sharp stab in the wrist Thereafter, for a second or two, things were confused. Grey clouds of mist swirled before his eyes, a roar of sound echoed in his ears. Then he lost consciousness.

Winter caught him as he fell, laid him on the rug in front of the hearth. Butyl chloride does not take long to register an effect As Murray lay breathing stertorously. Winter Hurried from the room, searched for a telephone. He found one on a ledge in the dressing-room. The armaments magnate liked them on all sides, Quickly he called the Yard, got in touch with Sanderson.

"I haven't been back more than five minutes," said the inspector, recognising the voice.

"Get along to Sir Edgar Murrays house as quickly as you can. I'll let you in through the front door. Bring two more men with you. Hurry."

He replaced the receiver and stood beside Sir Edgar, waiting for the sound of a car pulling up outside the house. Five minutes passed before he heard the dull screech of brakes. Instantly he left the bedroom, hurried down the staircase. He arrived in the hall as the butler appeared from the rear of the house.

"Stand back while I open this door," said Winter. "I am letting in some officers from Scotland Yard."

The butler opened his mouth to remonstrate, took another look at the eyes peering through the mask and decided that good health had its advantages. Winter opened the door Sanderson rushed in, with two men following on his heels. He stared from the masked man to the butler. The men behind him stopped in their tracks.

"How do you do, Sanderson? I am Winter, otherwise known as Murphy. Get one of your men to keep the butler quiet while I take you and one of your men upstairs. I'm playing the straight game with you."

The Yard man had burnt his boats behind him. Winter certainly held the instrument on which to play the tune. He followed him up the stairs, leaving one of his men with the butler. Winter showed them into the dressing-room leading off the bedroom. Sanderson stopped on his way when he saw the man lying on the rug, but Winter beckoned him on. He closed the door of the dressing-room behind them.

"Sanderson," he said, "the man lying on the floor, Sir Edgar Murray, is the murderer. I dosed him with butyl chloride, and he'll come round any minute now. I want you to stay here with your man and listen to the conversation between us. I won't waste your time now. All I can tell you can be heard when I talk to him."

Sanderson eyed him closely. "All right," he said. "Go ahead and don't pull any fancy tricks."

"I won't Get your man to take a note of our conversation. You'll be needing it. By the way, leave the door ajar."

Winter left them, walked over to the unconscious figure and ran through the dressing-gown pockets, From one of them he took an automatic pistol, fingered it for a while and then put it back.  Sir Edgar turned over on side and groaned. Winter stood, arms akimbo, watching him. Then he paced over the room, entered the bathroom, took a carafe of water Poured some over the man's face and throat. He shivered, opened his eyes, and looked around wildly.

"Where am I?" he asked.

"In your own bedroom, Sir Edgar, "Just as you were before you passed away in a faint. Now sit up in that chair. We're going to talk."

"I'm not fit to talk. I'm ill."

"You're going to talk. All you've got is a headache. Why did you murder William Peel?"

Sir Edgar's lips trembled, and the lids of his eyes flickered.

"I didn't murder him. You murdered him."

"Don't lie to me. You murdered him. If you don't tell me the truth, I'll tell so much about it that you'll have to thrown in the sponge whether you want to or not. Are you going to talk or shall I?"

"I know nothing about it, and you know I don't," whined the man.

"All right. Listen to me for five minutes. For months you've wanted to do a deal with William Peel, haven't you? You dared not build an air fleet of your own to smuggle arms into forbidden territories, but you knew that if you bought the Imperial Travel fleet you could fly them under the name of that firm without rousing suspicion. Don't argue. I know all about it. But William Peel was no rogue. He wouldn't take your dirty money. He knew what you wanted those planes for. Sir Edgar, you're a man who has always had his own way. You made up your mind that a man Like William Peel shouldn't stand in your path. But you didn't know how to get rid of him. You reckoned that once he was out of the way none of his co-directors was strong enough to stand against you. That's how thing were fixed until the night when I called on you. Any arguments about that?"

"You're only guessing," said Sir Edgar, but there was no conviction in his tone.

"We'll see. I called on your paramour Corinne Walters, and got from her all the love letters you'd sent to her. I came along here and gave you those letters in return for the secret formula of the Dallonian depth-charges. You could never forgive any man who bested you. I don t think you've ever hated a man as much in your life as you have hated me since that night The more your hate grew the more you toyed with the idea of revenge. I admit that your plan was fairly subtle. You knew Ray Winter was wanted by the police. You knew what a reputation he had. You knew that every card in the pack would be against him if he was entangled in a murder. So your thoughts went back to William Peel; and then you began to see daylight— or thought you did. Would you like me to tell you how you arranged everything?"

"You know too much," muttered the man."

"I can't hear you," said Winter.

"You know too much," shouted Sir Edgar. The listeners in the dressing-room smiled. Winter was drawing the man well.

"I know a lot more than I've told you," continued Winter. "The more you thought about your scheme the better it looked to you. The first thing to do was to remove yourself from the scene of the crime. You ordered a plane from Imperial Travel to take you to spot near Valenciennes."

"How did you know that?" spluttered Sir Edgar.

"That's only a quarter of what l know. Before you ordered the plane you talked to the only person in London you could trust implicitly— Corinne Walters. You knew she dare not let you down. You both shared the same guilty secret. You told her that you would pretend to go away in case there was any trouble about the missing depth-charge formula. You told her that you would return the same evening.

"Sir Edgar, you were flown to the spot near Valenciennes by a pilot named Larry Forbes. He had not turned round for England many minutes when a pilot on the other side brought you back. The name of that pilot was Henri Demoulier. You made your way as quickly as you could to Corinne Walters' place. You remained with her for a couple of hours talking about me. You then told her that you had a very important business appointment and you used her telephone.

"You telephoned William Peel and made a secret appointment with him for midnight. You knew that was the hour at which I usually worked. The reason why you were not seen was because Peel himself let you into the house privately. You murdered him. You wrote out the card involving me and pinned it to his chest. I'm not sure, but I'm betting that you walked from the house into the garage in the mews and waited there until the coast was clear.

"Then you went back to Corinne Walters' flat and stayed with her almost until dawn. Your nerves were none too good. One's first murder must be very trying. Before daylight came you returned to the Continent, leaving me to face a murder charge. As soon as you thought I was safely in gaol you returned, Sir Edgar. I waited for your return with great interest. Now you know why. Even clever men make bad slips. You made very few; but the luck wasn't with you. It so happened that I heard you talking to Corinne Walters at a time when the newspapers asserted you were abroad. After that I began to add pieces of the puzzle together. It was really very simple."

"How many people know about this?" asked Sir Edgar hoarsely.

"As far as I know," said Winter, "I am the only one."

A viciously triumphant smile flickered over Sir Edgar's face and vanished again. He slipped his hand into his pocket as he stood up. The automatic pointed at Winter's heart.

"And you're the only one who ever will know." he snarled, "because I'm going to slam a bullet through your heart. You can take my full confession to the grave with you. I did kill William Peel. And now I'm going to kill you. The last laugh is with me. When you're dead I'll telephone the police and tell them that I have killed that great criminal, Ray Winter in self-protection."

Sir Edgar pulled the trigger. Winter threw back his head and laughed wholeheartedly,

"I forgot to tell you that I extracted the bullets from the clip!"

The door of the dressing-room opened, and Sanderson stalked across the room. On his heels walked a man with a notebook. Sir Edgar looked at them like a man dazed.

"Clap a pair of handcuffs on him," the detective said at length to his assistant. "Take him along to the station. I'm going to talk to this man."

He touched Winter on the shoulder and walked into the dressing-room. When they were gone, Sir Edgar turned to the plainclothes man:

"Mind if I get a hat and coat?" he asked; and, though his voice trembled he had regained some of his lost control. The Yard man nodded. He waited while the baronet donned a hat and coat over his evening clothes before manacling his hands together then, with a motion of his head signalled they should go. .

In the street outside, Sir Edgar turned to his captor. "May I smoke?" he asked. A cigarette was produced and passed over. Then a lighter, which Sir Edgar took with his manacled hands. He snapped its trigger and the little flame shot up from its wick.

"I wonder," he mused, "if I could have kept myself out of this mess had I made these lighters instead of guns?"

Back in Sir Edgar's dressing-room, Winter was telling Sanderson a carefully-edited version of how he had come to know the truth about Peel's murder.

"That makes everything all clear, inspector, he concluded. "Now you can sleep peacefully. I told you I wouldn't let you down."

"You're an amazing person, whoever you may be. My head's still reeling. Who is the man understudying you at Brixton?"

"Only the kid brother."

"He's some kid!"

"After what I've done for you, inspector, you'll see that he's set free on Monday?"

"We've got nothing against him. He'll be free all right. But what about you? We've been wanting you for the last six months, and I reckon you'd better come along with me."

Winter looked at him steadily.

"Would you do that, Sanderson?" he asked softly.

The Yard man wriggled uncomfortably and pulled at his collar. "I've got my job to do, even if it is unpleasant."

"Will you listen to me for a couple of minutes before you make up your mind? That's not asking much of a favour, Sanderson."

"I owe a lot to you. Tell your tale."

"There is an event coming off in a month's time that I have longed for, lived for, dreamt of, for over a year. That event is the reopening of the Crown Coal Mine in Durham. I own that mine. Perhaps you remember reading in the papers about the explosion there just over a year ago. Six of my fellows lost their lives and the workings became filled with poisonous gas. so that we had to close down.

"Perhaps you've never been to a coal-mining district. Sanderson. Maybe you don't know what it means to those poor devils up there when a mine closes down and they're thrown out of work. But I do know, and I made up my mind that the mine was going to be opened up again just as soon as it could be.

"That meant I needed money. Not for myself, but for the mine. Special safety equipment had to be bought, special air-locks built around the pit-head. So I went out and stole the money.

"But why didn't you borrow it from the banks or financial houses?" asked Sanderson incredulously.

The other gave a short, hard laugh. "You don't know the mining business, inspector," he answered. "People only lend money on a sound security, and my mine hasn't paid for years. I suppose any one else would have closed it down ages ago: but I couldn't see those poor chaps chucked on the dole. And I wanted twenty-five thousand pounds to re-open the mine.

"Well, I thought it over, and then I became Ray Winter. My own name's Ray Larramie, and I had to have an alias.

"I never took a penny from those who couldn't afford it You can almost say that I took nothing from those who didn't deserve to have it taken. Until this week I had collected fifteen thousand pounds. Two days after I was broadcast for murder the British Admiralty paid me the sum of ten thousand pounds for that depth-charge formula. My interest in crime would have finished there if it had not been for Murray implicating me in the murder. I got my brother to take my place so that Murray would get around full of confidence. It left the field open to me.

"I was not going to leave Ray Winter behind until I'd cleared his name of murder. I've done that. Sanderson, and kept my word to every one. Now I'm waiting to hear what you have to say."

Inspector Sanderson bit his nether lip and remained silent His glance rose until his eyes observed the open window at the end of the room. Then he looked at Winter.

"Take that mask off." he said, "and let me have a look at you."

The man's hand rose slowly, and he pulled the elastic band over his head. Sanderson gazed at the pale drawn face, saw the supplicating look of appeal in the brown eyes Then he placed his hands on Larramie s shoulders.

"Ray." he said, "put that mask on again. I'm ready to do a deal with you."

"What is it?" asked Larramie eagerly.

"Only this: As a policeman I can't let criminals get away from me while I'm conscious. But if they render me unconscious and then scramble through such a window as the one in this room before I have time to come round the fault lies entirely with me."

"I still can't see what you're getting at."

Sanderson grinned and tilted his head on one side, then he raised his hand and pointed to his jaw. "Take a smack at that and get out of here!"

THE PITHEAD at the Crown Coal Mine was flanked on all sides by enormous crowds. Men, women and children were standing around the tall skeleton of the winding gear or clustering on the tops of the nearby slag heaps to get a good view of the proceedings as a group of miners hurried away from the mine-cage to join officials standing outside a wooden shack. A hurried consultation, handshakes all round, and then an announcement that brought delighted roars from the assembled crowd. The mine was ready to be reopened!

A stranger would have been surprised at the deference with which two of the begrimed miners in the group by the shack were treated. There was something about this pair that made them stand out from the rest, however—something in their athletic build and the way they strode along with the springy looseness of perfect health.

These two suddenly stepped away from the rest and made towards a youngish man in a dark-grey suit and bowler hat standing quietly by one of the mine buildings. The Larramie brothers shook hands with him.

"Thought I'd better come to see you." said Sanderson. "I wanted to tell you both that a crack on the jaw has destroyed my memory. And there's something else I wanted to say to you. It's just that I've seen today just how big a thing this reopening of the mine is to the district, and that you have the best wishes and greatest hopes for success of a mere Scotland Yard detective."

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Table of Contents

- 1: Secret of the Strong Room
- 2: Call in the Yard
- 3: The Murder Trap