The Borough Treasurer

his prospective victim’s habits. He would know exactly when and where to waylay Kitely. The filching of the piece of cord from the wall of Harborough’s shed was a clever thing⁠—infernally clever, thought Mallalieu, who had a designing man’s wholehearted admiration for any sort of cleverness in his own particular line. It would be an easy thing to do⁠—and what a splendidly important thing! Of course Cotherstone knew all about Harborough’s arrangements⁠—he would often pass the pig-killer’s house⁠—from the hedge of the garden he would have seen the coils of greased rope hanging from their nails under the verandah roof, aye, a thousand times. Nothing easier than to slip into Harborough’s garden from the adjacent wood, cut off a length of the cord, use it⁠—and leave it as a first bit of evidence against a man whose public record was uncertain. Oh, very clever indeed!⁠—if only Cotherstone could carry things off, and not allow his conscience to write marks on his face. And he must help⁠—and innocent as he felt Harborough to be, he must set things going against Harborough⁠—his life was as naught, against the Mallalieu-Cotherstone safety.

Mallalieu walked into the police-station, to find the sergeant just returned and in consultation with the superintendent, whom he had summoned to hear his report. Both turned inquiringly on the Mayor.

“I’ve heard all about it,” said Mallalieu, bustling forward. “Mr. Bent told me. Now then, where’s that cord they talk about?”

The sergeant pointed to the coil and the severed piece, which lay on a large sheet of brown paper on a side-table, preparatory to being sealed up. Mallalieu crossed over and made a short examination of these exhibits; then he turned to the superintendent with an air of decision.

“Aught been done?” he demanded.

“Not yet, Mr. Mayor,” answered the superintendent. “We were just consulting as to what’s best to be done.”

“I should think that’s obvious,” replied Mallalieu. “You must get to work! Two things you want to do just now. Ring up Norcaster for one thing, and High Gill Junction for another. Give ’em a description of Harborough⁠—he’ll probably have made for one place or another, to get away by train. And ask ’em at Norcaster to lend you a few plain-clothes men, and to send ’em along here at once by motor⁠—there’s no train till morning. Then, get all your own men out⁠—now!⁠—and keep folk off the paths in that wood, and put a watch on Harborough’s house, in case he should put a bold face on it and come back⁠—he’s impudence enough⁠—and of course, if he comes, they’ll take him. Get to all that now⁠—at once!”

“You think it’s Harborough, then?” said the superintendent.

“I think there’s what the law folks call a prymer facy case against him,” replied Mallalieu. “It’s your duty to get him, anyway, and if he can clear himself, why, let him. Get busy with that telephone, and be particular about help from Norcaster⁠—we’re understaffed here as it is.”

The superintendent hurried out of his office and Mallalieu turned to the sergeant.

“I understood from Mr. Bent,” he said, “that that housekeeper of Kitely’s said the old fellow had been to the bank at noon today, to draw some money? That so?”

“So she said, your Worship,” answered the sergeant. “Some allowance, or something of that sort, that he drew once a quarter. She didn’t know how much.”

“But she thought he’d have it on him when he was attacked?” asked Mallalieu.

“She said he was a man for carrying his money on him always,” replied the sergeant. “We understood from her it was his habit. She says he always had a good bit on him⁠—as a rule. And of course, if he’d drawn more today, why, he might have a fair lot.”

“We’ll soon find that out,” remarked Mallalieu. “I’ll step round to the bank manager and rouse him. Now you get your men together⁠—this is no time for sleeping. You ought to have men up at the Shawl now.”

“I’ve left one man at Kitely’s cottage, sir, and another about Harborough’s⁠—in case Harborough should come back during the night,” said the sergeant. “We’ve two more constables close by the station. I’ll get them up.”

“Do it just now,” commanded Mallalieu. “I’ll be back in a while.”

He hurried out again and went rapidly down the High Street to the old-fashioned building near the Town Hall in which the one bank of the little town did its business, and in which the bank manager lived. There was not a soul about in the street, and the ringing of the bell at the bank-house door, and the loud knock which Mallalieu gave in supplement to it, seemed to wake innumerable echoes. And proof as he believed himself to be against such slight things, the sudden opening of a window above his head made him jump.

The startled bank-manager, hurrying down to his midnight visitor in his dressing-gown and slippers, stood aghast when he had taken the Mayor within and learned his errand.

“Certainly!” he said. “Kitely was in the bank today, about noon⁠—I attended to him myself. That’s the second time he’s been here since he came to the town. He called here a day or two after he first took that house from Mr. Cotherstone⁠—to cash a draft for his quarter’s pension. He told me then who he was. Do you know?”

“Not in the least,” replied Mallalieu, telling the lie all the more readily because he had been fully prepared for the question to which it was an answer. “I knew naught about him.”

“He was an ex-detective,” said the bank-manager. “Pensioned off, of course: a nice pension. He told me he’d had⁠—I believe it was getting on to forty years’ service in the police force. Dear, dear, this is a sad business⁠—and I’m afraid I can tell you a bit more about it.”

“What?” demanded Mallalieu, showing surprise in spite of himself.

“You mentioned Harborough,” said the bank-manager, shaking his head.

“Well?” said Mallalieu. “What then?”

“Harborough was at the counter when Kitely took his money,” answered the bank-manager. “He had called in to