Roger said: “Where do you report, Harry?”
“To Percy, sir.”
“Yes. Where?”
“I have a telephone number. There is another way of communicating, also—through the men who sometimes are on duty outside. No doubt you’ve noticed them—I saw you looking out of the window to-night. There was one there. I always assume that when there is a special job on, they take extra care because they aren’t sure of you yet. I hope they never will be, sir. It’s a dirty business—it stinks. I’ve done a lot of things in my life, but murder— I’m scared. I don’t mind admitting I’m scared. But I’ve taken a chance, and I hope it’s justified.”
“Don’t you know where Percy lives?”
“No, sir.”
“Kennedy?”
“I’ve heard the name, that’s all, and I think he’s called here once or twice, but when he’s been coming, I’ve had orders to keep out of the way.”
“How do you get your instructions?”
“From Percy, sir.”
“And he blackmails you into obeying?”
“That’s right.”
“What jobs have you done?” Roger asked.
Harry put down the empty tankard and half-closed his eyes.
“Safes, mostly, sir. And breaking and entering, more lately. One of the places I went to, an old man was killed. I didn’t do it, but Percy says he can pin it on me. I don’t doubt he can. I get well paid for this, I didn’t see any reason why I shouldn’t do what I was told. You were just another dope. But after Miss Day and Ginger was bumped off—I couldn’t settle. There’s some things you can take, and there’s others that you just can’t swallow, and coldblooded murder’s a thing I can’t swallow.”
Roger wanted a cracksman. He said: “Have you got any burglar’s tools here?”
Harry’s eyes opened wide.
“Well——”
“Good, up-to-date stuff, not just a jemmy and a screwdriver.”
“I haven’t got any here, but I know where I could lay me hands on some.” Harry was puzzled yet eager.
“Will you take a big risk?”
“Nothing much to lose, now,” said Harry, and his face became more animated, a little colour glowed in his cheeks. “So I was right, you’ve been putting one across Percy and his boss.”
“That’s right, Harry.”
Harry leaned back in his chair and gave a little, satisfied smile. There was no gloating in it, but much relief.
* * * *
Roger stood in the doorway and looked across Lyme Street. The guard was still there. He himself was in the shadows, and the man couldn’t see him. He saw the other put his hands to his pocket and take out a packet of cigarettes; a moment later, a match flared. The man moved out of his doorway and strolled along the street—and Roger moved forward, but drew back suddenly. A policeman had turned the corner and was walking along, that was why the guard had moved. The guard crossed the road and stood outside a small cafe which was still open; a man, looking into a cafe and studying the menu card in the window, wasn’t going to attract much attention. He peered along the street. The policeman passed him. The guard waited until the policeman had turned the next corner, and then went back to his usual stand. Roger moved again, quickly. He saw the man stiffen. He crossed the road, but didn’t look at the man—whose job it was to report, and perhaps to follow. He walked towards the dark dingi-ness of the market lanes and alleys, and the man followed him. He slipped round a corner; it was very dark here. He heard the man hurrying after him, and knew when he was at the corner.
The man turned.
Roger grabbed him by the neck, stilling a cry, drove a fierce punch into his stomach, let him go, then struck at his chin. Two blows knocked the man out. No one was here, the policeman was out of sight. Roger dragged the unconscious man across the bumpy, cobbled road, into a narrow alley leading towards the main, covered market. He took out a length of cord, bound the man’s ankles and wrists, dragged him farther—into a little alcove—and stuffed a handkerchief into his mouth. Then he dragged him, by his coat collar, and saw a dark pile of empty wooden crates. He shifted some of the crates, dumped the man behind them, and put them back into position. He wouldn’t be found until those crates were moved, and that wouldn’t be for several hours, at least.
He went back to Lyme Street.
Harry came out of the doorway. “All okay, sir?”
“Yes. Get a move on.”
“I had to see this through,” said Harry. “See you at the Burlington Gardens end of Burlington Arcade in about an hour, then. It’s just on eleven—I ought to be there by midnight.”
“Fine.”
Harry turned and hurried towards the Strand and a taxi.
Roger had an hour to kill.
* * * *
