“And where were you dining with this unknown friend?” asked the imperturbable official.
Wallis named a restaurant in Wardour Street.
“At what hour were you dining?” asked the inspector patiently.
“Between the hours of eight and eleven,” said the man, “as the proprietor of the restaurant will testify.”
The inspector smiled to himself. He knew the restaurant and knew the proprietor. His testimony would not carry a great deal of weight with a jury.
“Have you anybody respectable,” he asked, “who will vouch for the fact that you were there, other than your unknown friend and Signor Villimicci?”
Wallis nodded.
“I might name, with due respect,” he said, “Sergeant Colebrook, of the Central Investigation Department of Scotland Yard.”
He was annoyingly bland. The inspector looked up sharply.
“Is he going to vouch for you?” he asked.
“He was watching me the whole of the time, disguised, I think, as a gentleman. At least, he was in evening dress, and he was quite different from the waiters. You see, he was sitting down.”
“I see,” said the inspector. He put down his pen.
“It was rather amusing to be watched by a real detective-sergeant, from that most awe-inspiring wilderness of bricks,” the man continued. “I quite liked it, though I am afraid the poor fellow was bored sooner than I was.”
“I understand,” said the inspector, “that you were being watched from eight o’clock last night till—?”
He paused inquiringly.
“Till near midnight, I should imagine. Until our dress-suited detective, looking tragically like a detective all the time, had escorted me to the front door of my flat.”
“I can verify that in a minute,” said the inspector. “Go into the parade room.”
Wallis strolled unconcernedly into the inner room whilst the inspector manipulated the telephone.
In five minutes the prisoner was sent for.
“You’re all right,” said the inspector. “Clean bill for you, Wallis.”
“I am glad to hear it,” said Wallis. “Very relieved indeed!” He sighed heavily. “Now that I am embarked upon what I might term a legalised form of thefts from the public, it is especially pleasing to me to know that my actions are approved by the police.”
“We don’t approve of everything you do,” said the inspector.
He was an annoying man. Wallis thought; he would neither lose his temper nor be rude.
“You can go now—sorry to have bothered you.”
“Don’t mention it,” said the polite man with a little bow.
“By the way, before you go,” said the inspector, “just come into my inner office, will you?”
Wallis followed him. The inspector closed the door behind them. They were alone.
“Wallis, do you know there is a reward of some twelve thousand pounds for the detection of the men engaged in these burglaries?”
“You surprise me,” said Mr. Wallis, lifting his eyebrows.
“I don’t surprise you,” said the inspector; “in fact, you know much more about it than I do. And I tell you this, that we are prepared to go to any lengths to track this gang, or, at any rate, to put an end to its operations. Look here, George,” he tapped the other on the chest with his strong, gnarled finger, “is it a scream?”
“A scream?” Mr. Wallis was puzzled innocence itself.
“Will you turn King’s evidence?” said the other shortly.
“I should be most happy,” said Wallis, with a helpless shrug, “but how can I turn King’s evidence about a matter on which I am absolutely uninformed? The reward is monstrously tempting. If I had companions in crime I should need very little persuading. My conscience is a matter of constant adjustment. It is rather like the foot-rule which shoemakers employ to measure their customers’ feet—terrifically adjustable. It has a sliding scale which goes up and down.”
“I don’t want to hear any more about your conscience,” said the officer wearily. “Do you scream or don’t you?”
“I don’t scream,” said Mr. Wallis emphatically.
The inspector jerked his head sideways, and with the bow which the invitation had interrupted, Mr. Wallis walked out into the street.
He knew, no one better, how completely every action of his was watched. He knew, even as he left the station, that the seemingly idle loafer on the corner of the street had picked him up, would follow him until he handed him over to yet another plainclothes officer for observation. From beat to beat, from one end of the City to another, those vigilant eyes would never leave him; whilst he slept, the door, back and front of his lodging would be watched. He could not move without all London—all the London that mattered as far as he was concerned—knowing everything about that move.
His home was the upper part of a house over a tobacconist’s in a small street off Charing Cross Road. And to his maisonette he made a leisurely way, not hastening his steps any the more because he knew that on one side of the street an innocent commercial traveller, and on the other a sandwich man apparently trudging homeward with his board, were keeping him under observation. He stopped to buy some cigars in the Charing Cross Road, crossed near the Alhambra, and ten minutes later was unlocking the door of the narrow passage which ran by the side of the shop, and gave him private access to the suite above.
It was a room comfortably furnished and giving evidence of some taste. Large divan chairs formed a feature of the furnishing, and the prints, though few were interesting by reason of their obvious rarity.
He did not trouble to make an examination of the room, or of the remainder of the maisonette he rented. If the police had been, they had been. If they had not, it did not matter. They could find nothing. He had a good conscience, so far as a man’s conscience may be good who fears less for the consequence of his deeds than for the apparent, the obvious and the discoverable consequences.
He rang a bell, and after a little delay an old woman answered the call.
“Make me some tea, Mrs. Skard,” he said. “Has anybody called?”
The old woman looked up to the ceiling for inspiration.
“Only the
