The Twelve African Novels (A Collection). Edgar Wallace

the more I think of it the bigger chance it is: why, if it came off we could run straight, there would be money to burn — we could drop the tricky things — forget ‘em, Lambaire.”

      “That’s what I thought,” said the other, “that was my idea at the time — I was too clever, or I might have brought it off.”

      He blew at the key.

      “What is the matter?” demanded Whitey, suddenly observing his difficulty.

      “It’s this lock, — I’m not used to the outer door — oh, here we are.”

      The door-key turned in the lock and the door opened. They closed it behind them, and Lambaire struck a match to light a way up the dark stairs. He lit another at the first landing, and by its light they made their way to the floor above.

      Here they stopped.

      “Strike a match, Whitey,” said Lambaire, and took a key from his pocket.

      For some reason the key would not turn.

      “That’s curious,” muttered Lambaire, and brought pressure to bear.

      But still the key refused to turn.

      Whitey fumbled at the matchbox and struck another match.

      “Here, let me try,” he said.

      He pressed the key over, but without success; then he tried the handle of the door.

      “It isn’t locked,” he said, and Lambaire swore.

      “It’s that cursed fool Grene,” he said. “I’ve told him a thousand times to make certain that he closed and locked the door when he left at night.”

      He went into the outer office. There was no electric light in the room, and he needed more matches as he made his way to his private room. He took another key and snapped open the patent lock.

      “Come in, Whitey,” he said, “we’ll take these things out of the safe — who’s there?”

      There was somebody in the room. He felt the presence rather than saw it. The place was in pitch darkness; such light as there was came from a lamp in the Court without, but only the faintest of reflected rays pierced the gloom of the office.

      “Keep the door, Whitey,” cried Lambaire, and a match spluttered in his hand. For a moment he saw nothing; then, as he peered through the darkness and his eyes became accustomed to the shadows, he uttered an imprecation.

      The safe — his private safe, was wide open.

      Then he saw the crouching figure of a man by the desk, and leapt at him, dropping the match.

      In the expiring flicker of light, he saw the figure straighten, then a fist, as hard as teak, and driven by an arm of steel, caught him full in the face, and he went over with a crash.

      Whitey in the doorway sprang forward, but a hand gripped him by the throat, lifted him like a helpless kitten, and sent him with a thud against the wall….

      “Strike a match, will you.” It was Lambaire who was the first to recover, and he bellowed like a mad bull—” Light — get a light.”

      With an unsteady hand, Whitey found the box.

      “There’s a gas bracket over by the window, — curse him ! — he’s nearly settled me.”

      The glow of an incandescent lamp revealed Lambaire, dishevelled, pale as death, his face streaming with blood, where he had caught his head on the sharp corner of the desk.

      He ran to the safe. There was no apparent disorder, there was no sign that it had been forced; but he turned over the papers, throwing them on to the floor with feverish haste, in his anxiety to find something.

      “Gone!” he gasped, “the plates — they’ve gone!”

      He turned, sick with fear, to Whitey.

      Whitey was standing, shaky but calm, by the door.

      “They’ve gone, have they?” he said, in little more than a whisper, “then that settles Amber.”

      “Amber?”

      “Amber,” said Whitey huskily. “I saw him — you know what it means, don’t you?”

      “Amber,” repeated the other, dazed.

      “Amber — Amber!” Whitey almost shouted the name. “Don’t you hear what I say — it’s Amber, the hook.”

      “What shall we do?”

      The big man was like a child in his pitiable terror.

      “Do!” Whitey laughed; it was a curious little laugh, and it spoke the concentrated hatred that lay in his heart. “We’ve got to find Amber, we’ve got to meet Amber, and we’ve got to kill Amber, damn him!”

VII. Amber Goes to Scotland Yard

       Table of Contents

      Peter Musk had the entire top floor of 19, Redcow Court, and was accounted an ideal tenant by his landlord, for he paid his rent regularly. Of the three rooms, Peter occupied one, Amber (“ My nephew from the country,” said Peter elaborately) the other, and the third was Peter’s “ common room.”

      Peter had reached the most exciting chapter in the variegated career of “Handsome Hike, the Terror of Texas,” when Amber came in.

      He came in hurriedly, and delivered a breathless little chuckle as he closed the door behind him.

      Peter looked up over his spectacles, and dropped his romance to his lap. “In trouble?” he demanded eagerly, and when Amber shook his head with a smile, a disappointed frown gathered on the old man’s face.

      “No, my Peter,” said Amber, hanging up his hat, “I am not in trouble — to any extent.” He took from his pocket two flat packages and laid them on the table carefully. They were wrapped in newspaper and contained articles of some heavy substance. Amber walked over to the mantelshelf, where an oil lamp burnt, and examined his coat with minute interest.

      “What’s up, Amber? What are you looking for?”

      “Blood, my Peter,” said Amber; “gore — human gore. I was obliged to strike a gentleman hard, with a knobby weapon — to wit, a fist.”

      “Hey?” Peter was on his feet, all eagerness, but Amber was still smiling.

      “Go on with your reading,” he said, “there’s nothing doin’.”

      That was a direct and a sharp speech for Amber, and Peter stared, and only the smile saved it from brusqueness.

      Amber continued his inspection, removing his coat, and scrutinising the garment carefully.

      “No incriminating stains,” he reported flippantly, and went to the table, where his packages lay. He had resumed his coat, and, diving into one of the pockets, he produced a flat round leather case. He pressed a spring, and the cover opened like the face of a watch.

      Peter was an interested spectator. “That is a compass,” he said.

      “True, my Peter; it is a compass — but it has the disadvantage that it does not cump: in other words, it is a most unblushing liar of a compass; a misleader of men, my Peter; it is the old one who is the devil of compasses, because it leadeth the feet to stray — in other words it’s a dud.”

      He shook it a little, gave it a twist or two, and shook his head severely. He closed it and put it on the table by his side. Then he turned his attention to the other packages. Very gingerly he unwrapped them. They were revealed as two flat plates of steel, strangely engraved. He leant over them, his smile growing broader and broader, till he broke into a gleeful little