“That is true,” said Goldberg; “anyway, I’m going to look for your taxicab. I can at least pull George in for driving without a licence.”
The man shook his head.
“I am sorry to disappoint you,” he said with mock regret, “but George has a licence too.”
“The devil he has,” said the baffled inspector.
“Funny, isn’t it,” said the bearded man. “George is awfully thorough.”
“Come now, Smith,” said the detective genially, “what is the game? How deep in this are you?”
“In what?” asked the puzzled man.
Goldberg gave him up for a bad job. He knew that Wallis had chosen his associates with considerable care.
“Anyway, I will go after George,” he said. “You are probably putting up a little bluff on me about the licence. Once I get him inside the jug there are lots of little things I might be able to discover.”
“Do,” said the driver earnestly. “You will find him standing on the Haymarket rank at about half-past ten tonight.”
“Yes, I know,” said the detective sardonically.
He had no charge and no warrant, save the search warrant which gave him the right of entry.
Smith, the driver, was sent about his business, and a detective put on to shadow him.
With what success this shadowing was done may be gathered from the fact that at half-past ten that night Inspector Goldberg discovered the cab he was seeking, and to his amazement found it in the very place where Smith had told him to expect it. And there the bearded driver was sitting with all the aplomb of one who was nearing the end of a virtuous and well-rewarded day.
“Now, George,” said the inspector jocularly, “come down off that perch and let me have a look at your licence; if it is not made out in your name I am going to pull you.”
The man did not descend, but he put his hand in his pocket and produced a little leather wallet.
The inspector opened it and read.
“Ah!” he said exultantly, “as I thought, this is made out in the name of Smith.”
“I am Smith,” said the driver calmly.
“Get down,” said the inspector.
The man obeyed. There was no question as to his identity.
“You see,” he explained, “when you put your flat-footed splits on to follow me I had no intention of bothering George. He is big enough to look after himself, and, by the way, his licence is made out in his own name, so you need not trouble about that.
“But as soon as I saw you did not trust me,” he said reproachfully, “why, I sort of got on my metal. I slipped your busy fellow in Oxford Street, and came on and took my cab from the desperate criminal you are chasing.”
“Where is he now?” asked Goldberg.
“In his flat, and in bed I trust at this hour,” said the bearded man virtuously.
With this the inspector had to be content. To make absolutely sure, he went back to the house off Charing Cross Road, and found, as he feared, Mr. George Wallis, if not in bed, at least in his dressing-gown, and the end of his silk pyjamas flapped over his great woollen slippers.
“My dear good chap,” he expostulated wearily, “am I never to be left in quiet? Must the unfortunate record which I bear still pursue me, penitent as I am, and striving, as I may be, to lead that unoffending life which the State demands of its citizens?”
“Do not make a song about it, George,” grumbled Goldberg. “You have kept me busy all the night looking after you. Where have you been?”
“I have been to a picture palace,” said the calm man, “observing with sympathetic interest the struggles of a poor but honest bank clerk to secure the daughter of his rich and evil boss. I have been watching cowboys shooting off their revolvers and sheriffs galloping madly across plains. I have, in fact, run through the whole gamut of emotions which the healthy picture palace excites.”
“You talk too much,” said the inspector.
He did not waste any further time, and left Mr. Wallis stifling a sleepy yawn; but the door had hardly closed behind the detective when Wallis’s dressing-gown was thrown aside, his pyjamas and woollen slippers discarded, and in a few seconds the man was fully dressed. From the front window he saw the little knot of detectives discussing the matter, and watched them as they moved slowly to the end of the street. There would be a further discussion there, and then one of them would come back to his vigil; but before they had reached the end of the street he was out of the house and walking rapidly in the opposite direction to that which they had taken.
He had left a light burning to encourage the watcher. He must take his chance about getting back without being observed. He made his way quickly in the direction of the tube station, and a quarter of an hour later, by judicious transfers, he was in the vicinity of Hampstead. He walked down the hill towards Belsize Park and picked up a taxicab. He had stopped at the station to telephone, and had made three distinct calls.
Soon after eleven he was met at Chalk Farm Station by his two confederates. Thereafter all trace was lost of them. So far, in a vague and unsatisfactory way, Inspector Goldberg had kept a record of Wallis’s movements that night.
He had to guess much, and to take something on trust, for the quarry had very cleverly covered his tracks.
At midnight the guard in the Bank of the Northern Provinces was making his round, and was ascending the stone steps which led from the vault below, when three men sprang at him, gagged him and bound him with incredible swiftness. They did not make any attempt to injure him, but with scientific thoroughness they placed him in such a position that he was quite incapable of offering resistance or of summoning assistance to his aid. They locked him in a small room usually occupied by
