Moss came out last week.”
Billy flushed and lowered his eyes.
“I don’t know no Harry Moss,” he muttered doggedly.
“Harry Moss came out last week,” continued the detective shortly, “after doing three years for robbery with violence — three years and ten lashes.”
“I don’t know anything about it,” said Marks in the same tone.
“He got clean away and the police had no clues,” the detective went on remorselessly, “and they might not have caught him to this day, only — only ‘from information received’ they took him one night out of his bed in Leman Street.”
Billy licked his dry lips, but did not speak.
“Harry Moss would like to know who he owes his three stretch to — and the ten. Men who’ve had the cat have a long memory, Billy.”
“That’s not playing the game, Mr. Falmouth,” cried Billy thickly. “I — I was a bit hard up, an’ Harry Moss wasn’t a pal of mine — and the p’lice wanted to find out — —”
“And the police want to find out now,” said Falmouth.
Billy Marks made no reply for a moment.
“I’ll tell you all there is to be told,” he said at last, and cleared his throat. The detective stopped him.
“Not here,” he said. Then turning to the officer in charge:
“Sergeant, you may release this man on bail — I will stand sponsor.” The humorous side of this appealed to Billy at least, for he grinned sheepishly and recovered his former spirits.
“First time I’ve been bailed out by the p’lice,” he remarked facetiously.
The motorcar bore the detective and his charge to Scotland Yard, and in Superintendent Falmouth’s office Billy prepared to unburden himself.
“Before you begin,” said the officer, “I want to warn you that you must be as brief as possible. Every minute is precious.”
So Billy told his story. In spite of the warning there were embellishments, to which the detective was forced to listen impatiently.
At last the pickpocket reached the point.
“There was two of ‘em, one a tall chap and one not so tall. I heard one say ‘My dear George’ — the little one said that, the one I took the ticker from and the pocketbook. Was there anything in the notebook?” Billy asked suddenly.
“Go on,” said the detective.
“Well,” resumed Billy, “I follered ’em up to the end of the street, and they was waitin’ to cross towards Charing Cross Road when I lifted the clock, you understand?”
“What time was this?”
“‘Arf past ten — or it might’ve been eleven.”
“And you did not see their faces?”
The thief shook his head emphatically.
“If I never get up from where I’m sittin’ I didn’t, Mr Falmouth,” he said earnestly.
The detective rose with a sigh.
“I’m afraid you’re not much use to me, Billy,” he said ruefully. “Did you notice whether they wore beards, or were they cleanshaven, or — —”
Billy shook his head mournfully.
“I could easily tell you a lie, Mr Falmouth,” he said frankly, “and I could easily pitch a tale that would take you in, but I’m playin’ it square with you.”
The detective recognised the sincerity of the man and nodded.
“You’ve done your best, Billy,” he said, and then: “I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. You are the only man in the world who has ever seen one of the Four Just Men — and lived to tell the story. Now, although you cannot remember his face, perhaps if you met him again in the street you would know him — there may be some little trick of walking, some habit of holding the hands that you cannot recall now, but if you saw again you would recognise. I shall therefore take upon myself the responsibility of releasing you from custody until the day after tomorrow. I want you to find this man you robbed. Here is a sovereign; go home, get a little sleep, turn out as early as you can and go west.” The detective went to his desk, and wrote a dozen words on a card. “Take this: if you see the man or his companion, follow them, show this card to the first policeman you meet, point out the man, and you’ll go to bed a thousand pounds richer than when you woke.”
Billy took the card.
“If you want me at any time you will find somebody here who will know where I am. Goodnight,” and Billy passed into the street, his brain in a whirl, and a warrant written on a visiting card in his waistcoat pocket.
The morning that was to witness great events broke bright and clear over London. Manfred, who, contrary to his usual custom, had spent the night at the workshop in Carnaby Street, watched the dawn from the flat roof of the building.
He lay face downwards, a rug spread beneath him, his head resting on his hands. Dawn with its white, pitiless light, showed his strong face, seamed and haggard. The white streaks in his trim beard were accentuated in the light of morning. He looked tired and disheartened, so unlike his usual self that Gonsalez, who crept up through the trap just before the sun rose, was as near alarmed as it was possible for that phlegmatic man to be. He touched him on the arm and Manfred started.
“What is the matter?” asked Leon softly.
Manfred’s smile and shake of head did not reassure the questioner.
“Is it Poiccart and the thief?”
“Yes,” nodded Manfred. Then speaking aloud, he asked: “Have you ever felt over any of our cases as you feel in this?”
They spoke in such low tones as almost to approach whispering. Gonsalez stared ahead thoughtfully.
“Yes,” he admitted, “once — the woman at Warsaw. You remember how easy it all seemed, and how circumstance after circumstance thwarted us…till I began to feel, as I feel now, that we should fail.”
“No, no, no!” said Manfred fiercely. “There must be no talk of failure, Leon, no thought of it.”
He crawled to the trapdoor and lowered himself into the corridor, and Gonsalez followed.
“Thery?” he asked.
“Asleep.”
They were entering the studio, and Manfred had his hand on the door handle when a footstep sounded on the bottom floor.
“Who’s there?” cried Manfred, and a soft whistle from below sent him flying downstairs.
“Poiccart!” he cried.
Poiccart it was, unshaven, dusty, weary.
“Well?” Manfred’s ejaculation was almost brutal in its bluntness.
“Let us go upstairs,” said Poiccart shortly. The three men ascended the dusty stairway, not a word being spoken until they had reached the small livingroom.
Then Poiccart spoke:
“The very stars in their courses are fighting against us,” he said, throwing himself into the only comfortable chair in the room, and flinging his hat into a corner. “The man who stole my pocketbook has been arrested by the police. He is a well-known criminal of a sneak-thief order, and unfortunately he had been under observation during the evening. The pocketbook was found in his possession, and all might have been well, but an unusually smart police officer associated the contents with us.
“After I had left you I went home and changed, then made my way