Callidino, the little Italian at his side, was neat and dapper. His hair was rather long, he suggested rather the musical enthusiast than the cool-headed man of business. And yet this dapper Italian was known as the most practical of the remarkable trio which for many years had been the terror of every bank president in France.
The third was Persh, a stout man with a pleasant, florid face, and a trim cavalry moustache, who, despite his bulk, was a man of extraordinary agility, and his escape from Devil’s Island and his subsequent voyage to Australia in an open boat will be fresh in the minds of the average newspaper readers.
They made no disguise as to their identities, they did not evade the frank questioning which was their lot when the City Police smelt them out and came in to investigate the affairs of this “outside brokers’ ” establishment. The members of the City force were a little disappointed to discover that quite a legitimate business was being done. You cannot quarrel even with convicted bank robbers if they choose to get their living by any way which, however much discredited, is within the law; and beyond warning those of their clients with whom they could get in touch that the heads of this remarkable business were notorious criminals, the police must needs sit by and watch, satisfied that sooner or later the men would make a slip that would bring them within the scope of police action.
“And they will have to wait a jolly long time,” said Wallis.
He looked round his “Board” with an amused smile.
“Have they been in today?” asked Callidino.
“They have been in today,” said Wallis gravely. “They have searched our books and our desks and our clothes, and even the legs of our office stools.”
“An indelicate proceeding,” said Persh cheerfully.
“And what did they find, George?”
George smiled.
“They found all there was to be found,” he said.
“I suppose it was the burglary at the Bond Guarantees that I have been reading about that’s excited them,” said the Italian coolly.
“I suppose so,” said Wallis, with grave indifference. “It is pretty terrible to have names such as we possess. Seriously,” he went on, “I am not very much afraid of the police, even suppose there was anything to find. I haven’t met one of them who has the intelligence of that cool devil we met at the Foreign Office, when I had to answer some questions about Persh’s unique experiences on Devil’s Island.”
“What was his name?” asked Persh, interested.
“Something associated in my mind with South Africa—oh, yes, Standerton. A cool beast—I met him at Epsom the other day,” said Wallis. “He’s lost in a place like the Foreign Office. Do you remember that quick run through he gave me, Persh?”
The other nodded.
“Before I knew where I was I admitted that I’d been in Huntingdonshire the same week as Lady Perkinton’s jewels were taken. If he’d had another five minutes I guess he’d have known”—he lowered his voice to little more than a whisper—“all this hidden treasure which the English police are seeking was cached.”
The men laughed as at some great joke.
“Talking of cool people,” said Wallis, “do you recall that weird devil who held us up in Hatton Garden?”
“Have you found him?” asked Callidino.
George shook his head.
“No,” he said slowly, “only I’m rather afraid of him.”
Which was a remarkable confession for him to make. He changed the subject abruptly.
“I suppose you people know,” said Wallis, “that the police are particularly active just now? I’ve reason to be aware of the fact, because they have just concluded a most exhaustive search of my private belongings.”
He did not exaggerate. The police were, indeed, most eager for some clue to associate these three known criminals with the acts of the past month.
Half an hour later Wallis left the building. He paused in the entrance hall of the big block of offices, lighted a cigar with an air that betokened his peace with the world and his approval of humanity.
As his foot touched the pavement a tall man stepped to his side. Wallis looked up quickly and gave a little nod.
“I want you,” said the tall man coldly.
“Do you indeed?” said Wallis with exaggerated interest. “And what may you want with me?”
“You come along with me, and not so much of your lip,” said the man.
He called a cab, and the two men were rapidly driven to the nearest City police station. Wallis continued smoking his cigar, without any outward indication of apprehension. He would have chatted very gaily with the officer who had effected his arrest, but the officer himself was in no mood for light humour.
He was hustled into the charge room and brought before the inspector’s desk.
That officer looked up with a nod. He was more genial than his captor.
“Well, Wallis,” he said with a smile, “we want some information from you.”
“You always want information from somebody,” said the man with cold insolence. “Have you had another burglary?”
The inspector nodded.
“Tut, tut!” said the prisoner with an affectation of distress, “how very annoying for you Mr. Whitling. I suppose you have got the culprit?” he asked blandly.
“I’ve got you at present,” said the calm inspector. “I should not be surprised if I had also got the culprit. Can you explain where you were last night?”
“With the greatest of pleasure,” said Wallis; “I was dining with a friend.”
“His name?”
The other shrugged his shoulders. “His name is immaterial. I was dining with a friend whose name does not matter.
