Inspector Swanage has a much greater acquaintance with the fraternity known as ‘the boys’ than any other officer. He has attended race meetings for years, and ‘the boys’ always greet him respectfully, though they wish him further. Many a prettily-planned coup of theirs has he nipped in the bud, and many an unsuspecting greenhorn has he saved from pillage by a timely whisper that the well-dressed young gentlemen who are putting their fivers on so merrily and coming out of the enclosure with their pockets stuffed full of banknotes are men who get their living by clever swindling, and are far more dangerous than the ordinary vulgar pickpocket.
On one occasion not many years ago I found a well-known publisher at a race meeting in earnest conversation with a beautifully-dressed, grey-haired sportsman. The publisher informed me that his new acquaintance was the owner of a horse which was certain to win the next race, and that it would start at ten to one. Only, in order not to shorten the price nobody was to know the name of the horse, as the stable had three in the race. He had obligingly taken a fiver off the publisher to put on with his own money.
I told the publisher that he was the victim of a ‘tale-pitcher’, and that he would never see his fiver again. At that moment Inspector Swanage came on the scene, and the owner of race horses disappeared as if by magic. Swanage recognised the man instantly, and having heard my publisher’s story said, ‘If I have the man taken will you prosecute?’ The publisher shook his head. He didn’t want to send his authors mad with delight at the idea that somebody had eventually succeeded in getting a fiver the best of him. So Inspector Swanage strolled away. Half an hour later he came to us in the enclosure and said, ‘Your friend’s horse doesn’t run, so he’s given me that fiver back again for you.’ And with a broad grin he handed my friend a banknote.
It was Inspector Swanage’s skill and kindness on this occasion that made me always eager to have a chat with him when I saw him at a race meeting, for his conversation was always interesting.
The February afternoon had been a cold one, and soon after the commencement of racing there were signs of fog. Now a foggy afternoon is dear to the hearts of ‘the boys’. It conceals their operations, and helps to cover their retreat. As the fog came up the Inspector began to look anxious, and I went up to him.
‘You don’t like the look of things?’ I said.
‘No, if this gets worse the band will begin to play – there are some very warm members of it here this afternoon. It was a day just like this last year that they held up a bookmaker going to the station, and eased him of over £500. Hullo?’
As he uttered the exclamation the Inspector pulled out his racecard and seemed to be anxiously studying it. But under his voice he said to me, ‘Do you see that tall man in a fur coat talking to a bookmaker? See, he’s just handed him a banknote?’
‘Where? I don’t see him.’
‘Yonder. Do you see that old gipsy-looking woman with racecards? She has just thrust her hand through the railings and offered one to the man.’
‘Yes, yes – I see him now.’
‘That’s Flash George. I’ve missed him lately, and I heard he was broke, but he’s in funds again evidently by his get-up.’
‘One of “the boys”?’
‘Has been – but he’s been on another lay lately. He was mixed up in that big jewel case – £10,000 worth of diamonds stolen from a demimondaine. He got rid of some of the jewels for the thieves, but we could never bring it home to him. But he was watched for a long time afterwards and his game was stopped. The last we heard of him he was hard up and borrowing from some of his pals. He’s gone now. I’ll just go and ask the bookie what he’s betting to.’
The Inspector stepped across to the bookmaker and presently returned.
‘He is in luck again,’ he said. ‘He’s put a hundred ready on the favourite for this race. By the bye, how’s your friend Mrs Dene getting on with her case?’
I confessed my ignorance as to what Dorcas was doing at the present moment – all I knew was that she was away.
‘Oh, I thought you’d have known all about it,’ said the Inspector. ‘She’s on the Hannaford case.’
‘What, the murder?’
‘Yes.’
‘But surely that was settled by the police? The husband was arrested immediately after the inquest.’
‘Yes, and the case against him was very strong, but we know that Dorcas Dene has been engaged by Mr Hannaford’s family, who have made up their minds that the police, firmly believing him guilty, won’t look anywhere else for the murderer – of course they are convinced of his innocence. But you must excuse me – the fog looks like thickening, and may stop racing – I must go and put my men to work.’
‘One moment before you go – why did you suddenly ask me how Mrs Dene was getting on? Was it anything to do with Flash George that put it in your head?’
The Inspector looked at me curiously.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘though I didn’t expect you’d see the connection. It was a mere coincidence. On the night that Mrs Hannaford was murdered, Flash George, who had been lost sight of for some time by our people, was reported to have been seen by the Inspector who was going his rounds in the neighbourhood. He was seen about half-past two o’clock in the morning looking rather dilapidated and seedy. When the report of the murder came in, the Inspector at once remembered that he had seen Flash George in Haverstock Hill. But there
