“Fine,” said the sceptical Richard. “Forgive these embarrassing questions, Tommy, but in my bright lexicon there is no such word as ‘reform.’ ”
“I don’t know your friend, but you’ve got it wrong,” said Tommy hazily.
Martin offered him a lift, but this was declined, and the detective went back alone to London, and, to his annoyance, arrived at the library half an hour after the girl had left.
It was too late, he thought, to see Mr. Havelock of Lincoln’s Inn Fields, and in point of fact the recollection of that engagement brought with it a feeling of discomfort. His plans were already made. He intended spending a month in Germany before he returned to the work which he had promised himself: a volume on Thieves and Their Methods, which he thought would pleasantly occupy the next year.
Dick, without being extremely wealthy, was in a very comfortable position. Sneed had spoken of a six-figure legacy, and was nearly right, although the figures were dollars, for his uncle had been a successful cattle farmer of Alberta. Mainly he was leaving the police force because he was nearing promotion, and felt it unfair to stand in the way of other men who were more in need of rank than himself. Police work amused him. It was his hobby and occupation, and he did not care to contemplate what life would be without that interest.
He had turned to go into his flat when he heard a voice hail him, and he turned to see the man whom he had released that morning crossing the road in some haste. Ordinarily, Lew Pheeney was the coolest of men, but now he was almost incoherent.
“Can I see you, Slick?” he asked, a quiver in his voice, which Dick did not remember having heard before.
“Surely you can see me. Why? Is anything wrong?”
“I don’t know.” The man looked up and down the street nervously. “I’m being trailed.”
“Not by the police—that I can swear,” said Dick.
“Police!” said the man impatiently. “Do you think that would worry me? No, it’s the fellow—I spoke to you about. There’s something wrong in that business. Slick, I kept one thing from you. While I was working I saw this guy slip a gun out of his hip and drop it into his overcoat pocket. He stood holding it all the time I was working, and it struck me then that, if I’d got that door open, there’d have been no chance of my ever touching the thousand. Halfway through I said I wanted to go out, and, once outside, I bolted. There was something that chased me—God knows what it was; a sort of animal. And I hadn’t got a gun—I never carry one in this country, because a judge piles it on if you’re caught with a barker in your pocket.”
All the time they had been speaking they were passing through the vestibule and up the stairs to Slick’s flat, and, without invitation, the burglar followed him into the apartment.
He led the man into his study and shut the door.
“Now, Lew, let me hear the truth—what was the work you were doing on Tuesday night?”
Lew looked round the room, out of the window, everywhere except at Dick. Then:
“I was trying to open a dead man’s tomb!” he said in a low voice.
IV
There was a silence of a minute. Dick looked at the man, hardly believing his ears.
“Trying to open a dead man’s tomb?” he repeated. “Now sit down and tell me all about it, Lew.”
“I can’t—yet. I’m scared,” said the other doggedly. “This man is hell, and I’d as soon face the devil as go through another night like I had on Tuesday.”
“Who is the man?”
“I won’t tell you that,” said the other sullenly. “I might at the end, but I won’t tell you now. If I can find a quiet place I’m going to write it all out, and have it on paper in case—anything happens to me.”
He was obviously labouring under a sense of unusual excitement, and Dick, who had known him for many years, both in England and in Canada, was amazed to see this usually phlegmatic man in such a condition of nerves.
He refused to take the dinner that the old housekeeper served, contenting himself with a whisky and soda, and Dick Martin thought it wise not to attempt to question him any further.
“Why don’t you stay here tonight and write your story? I won’t ask you for it, but you’ll be as safe here as anywhere.”
That idea seemed already to have occurred to the man, for he obeyed instantly, and Dick gathered that he had such a scheme in his mind. Dinner was nearly through when the detective was called away to the phone.
“Is that Mr. Martin?”
The voice was that of a stranger.
“Yes,” replied Dick.
“I am Mr. Havelock. The Commissioner sent me a message this evening, and I was expecting you to call at my office. I wonder if you could see me tonight?”
There was anxiety and urgency in the tone.
“Why, surely,” said Dick. “Where are you living?”
“907, Acacia Road, St. John’s Wood. I am very near to you; a taxi would get you here in five minutes. Have you dined? I was afraid you had. Will you come up to coffee in about a quarter of an hour?”
Dick Martin had agreed before he realized that his guest and his strange story had to be considered.
The startling announcement of Lew Pheeney had changed his plans. Yet it might be advisable to leave the man to write his story. He called his housekeeper aside and dismissed her for the night. Pheeney, alone in the flat, might write his story without interruption.
The man readily agreed to his suggestion, seemed, in fact, relieved at the prospect of being alone, and a quarter of an hour later Mr. Martin was ringing the bell of an imposing house that stood in its acre of garden in the best part of St. Johns
