And there, felt Sigsbee H. Waddington bitterly, you had in a nutshell the thing that made life so difficult to live—the tragic problem of how to put your hand on the right specialist at the exact moment when you required him. All these reference-books like the Classified Telephone Directory omitted the vital trades—the trades whose members were of assistance in the real crisis of life. They told you where to find a Glass Beveller, as if anyone knew what to do with a Glass Beveller when they had got him. They gave you the address of Yeast Producers and Designers of Quilts: but what was the good of a producer of yeast when you wanted someone who would produce a jemmy and break into a house or a designer of quilts when what you required was a man who could design a satisfactory scheme for stealing an imitation-pearl necklace?
Mr. Waddington groaned in sheer bitterness of spirit. The irony of things afflicted him sorely. Every day the papers talked about the Crime Wave: every day a thousand happy crooks were making off in automobiles with a thousand bundles of swag: and yet here he was, in urgent need of one of these crooks, and he didn’t know where to look for him.
A deprecating tap sounded on the door.
“Come in!” shouted Mr. Waddington irritably.
He looked up and perceived about seventy-five inches of bony policeman shambling over the threshold.
II
“I beg your pardon, sir, if I seem to intrude,” said the policeman, beginning to recede. “I came to see Mr. Beamish. I should have made an appointment.”
“Hey! Don’t go.” Said Mr. Waddington.
The policeman paused doubtfully at the door.
“But as Mr. Beamish is not at home. …”
“Come right in and have a chat. Sit down and take the weight off your feet. My name is Waddington.”
“Mine is Garroway,” replied the officer, bowing courteously.
“Pleased to meet you.”
“Happy to meet you, sir.”
“Have a good cigar.”
“I should enjoy it above all things.”
“I wonder where Mr. Beamish keeps them,” said Sigsbee H., rising and routing about the room. “Ah, here we are. Match?”
“I have a match, thank you.”
“Capital!”
Sigsbee H. Waddington resumed his seat and regarded the other affectionately. An instant before, he had been bemoaning the fact that he did not know where to lay his hands on a crook, and here, sent from heaven, was a man who was probably a walking directory of malefactors.
“I like policemen,” said Mr. Waddington affably.
“That is very gratifying, sir.”
“Always have. Shows how honest I am, ha ha! If I were a crook, I suppose I’d be scared stiff, sitting here talking to you.” Mr. Waddington drew bluffly at his cigar. “I guess you come across a lot of criminals, eh?”
“It is the great drawback to the policeman’s life,” assented Officer Garroway, sighing. “One meets them on all sides. Only last night, when I was searching for a vital adjective, I was called upon to arrest an uncouth person who had been drinking home-brewed hootch. He soaked me on the jaw, and inspiration left me.”
“Wouldn’t that give you a soft-pine finish!” said Mr. Waddington sympathetically. “But what I was referring to was real crooks. Fellows who get into houses and steal pearl necklaces. Ever met any of them?”
“I meet a great number. In pursuance of his duty, a policeman is forced against his will to mix with all sorts of questionable people. It may be that my profession biases me, but I have a hearty dislike for thieves.”
“Still, if there were no thieves, there would be no policemen.”
“Very true, sir.”
“Supply and demand.”
“Precisely.”
Mr. Waddington blew a cloud of smoke.
“I’m kind of interested in crooks,” he said. “I’d like to meet a few.”
“I assure you that you would not find the experience enjoyable,” said Officer Garroway, shaking his head. “They are unpleasant, illiterate men with little or no desire to develop their souls. I make an exception, I should mention, however, in the case of Mr. Mullett, who seemed a nice sort of fellow. I wish I could have seen more of him.”
“Mullett? Who’s he?”
“He is an ex-convict, sir, who works for Mr. Finch in the apartment upstairs.”
“You don’t say! An ex-convict and works for Mr. Finch? What was his line?”
“Inside burglary jobs, sir. I understand, however, that he has reformed and is now a respectable member of society.”
“Still, he was a burglar once?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, well!”
There was a silence. Officer Garroway, who was trying to find a good synonym for one of the adjectives in the poem on which he was occupied, stared thoughtfully at the ceiling. Mr. Waddington chewed his cigar intensely.
“Say, listen!” said Mr. Waddington.
“Sir?” said the policeman, coming out of his reverie with a start.
“Suppose,” said Mr. Waddington, “suppose, just for the sake of argument, that a wicked person wanted a crook to do a horrible, nefarious job for him, would he have to pay him?”
“Undoubtedly, sir. These men are very mercenary.”
“Pay him much?”
“I imagine a few hundred dollars. It would depend on the magnitude of the crime contemplated, no doubt.”
“A few hundred dollars!”
“Two, perhaps, or three.”
Silence fell once more. Officer Garroway resumed his inspection of the ceiling. What he wanted was something signifying the aspect of the streets of New York, and he had used “sordid” in line two. “Scabrous!” That was the word. He was rolling it over his tongue when he became aware that his companion was addressing him.
“I beg your pardon, sir?”
Mr. Waddington’s eyes were glittering in a peculiar way. He leaned forward and tapped Officer Garroway on the knee.
“Say, listen! I like your face, Larrabee.”
“My name is Garroway.”
“Never mind about your name. It’s your face I like. Say, listen, do you want to make a pile of money?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, I don’t mind telling you that I’ve taken a fancy to you, and I’m going to do something for you that I wouldn’t do for many people. Have you ever heard of the Finer and Better Motion Picture Company of Hollywood, Cal.?”
“No, sir.”
“That’s the wonderful thing,” said
