The Twelve African Novels (A Collection). Edgar Wallace

usually possess more than ordinary resources. If you went for them you’d only bite off a bit of the tail, but the rest of the body would go to earth quicker than money melts.”

      “I could put them under observation—” began the inspector.

      “Pouf! “ said Amber scornfully, “pouf, my inspector! Observation be blowed! They’d twig the observer in two shakes; they’d recognise his boots, and his moustache, and his shaven chin. I know your observers. I can pick ’em out in a crowd. No, that’s not my idea.” Amber hesitated, and appeared to be a little ill at ease.

      “Go on, have another cigar, that will help you,” encouraged Fell, and opened the box.

      “I thank you, but no,” said Amber firmly. “I can talk without any such drastic inducement. What I want to say is this; — you know my record?”

      “I do,” said Fell; “or I think I do, which amounts to the same thing.”

      “My Chief Inspector,” said Amber with some severity, “I beg you to apply your great intellect to a matter which concerns me, as it concerns you. A flippant and a careless interest in the problem I am putting forward, may very well choke the faucet of frankness which at present is turning none too easily. In other words I am embarrassed.”

      He was silent for awhile; then he got up from the other side of Fell’s desk, where he had sat at the detective’s invitation, and began to pace the room.

      “It’s common talk throughout the prisons of England that there is a gang, a real swell gang, putting banknotes into circulation — not only English but foreign notes,” he began.

      “It is also common talk in less exclusive circles, Amber, my dear lad,” said Fell dryly; “we want that gang badly.” He picked up a plate, and held it under the light. “This looks good, but until we ‘pull’ it I cannot tell how good.”

      “Suppose “ — Amber leant over the table and spoke earnestly—” suppose it is the work of the big gang, — suppose I can track ’em down—”

      “Well?”

      “Would you find me a billet at the Yard?”

      They looked at each other for a space of time, then the lines about the inspector’s eyes creased and puckered, and he burst into a roar of laughter.

      “My Chief Detective Inspector,” said Amber reproachfully, “you hurt me.”

      But Amber’s plaintive protest did not restore the detective’s gravity. He laughed until the tears streamed down his face, and Amber watched him keenly.

      “Oh dear!” gasped the detective, wiping his eyes. “You’re an amusing devil — here.” He got up, took a bunch of bright keys from his pocket and opened a cupboard in the wall. From a drawer he took a sheet of foolscap paper, laid it on his desk and sat down.

      “Your convictions!” he scoffed.

      The paper was ruled exactly down the centre. On the left — to which the detective pointed, were two entries. On the right there was line after line of cramped writing.

      “Your imprisonments,” said the detective.

      Amber said nothing, only he scratched his chin thoughtfully.

      “By my reckoning,” the detective went on slowly, “you have been sentenced in your short but lurid career to some eighty years’ penal servitude.”

      “It seems a lot,” said Amber.

      “It does,” said the detective, and folded the paper: “So when you come to me and suggest that you would like to turn over a new leaf; would like in fact to join the criminal investigation department, I smile. You’ve pulled my leg once, but never again. Seriously, Amber,” he went on, lowering his voice, “can you do anything for us in this forgery business? — the chief is getting very jumpy about the matter.”

      Amber nodded.

      “I think I can,” he said,” if I can only keep out of prison for another week.”

      “Try,” said Fell, with a smile.

      “I’ll try,” said Amber cheerfully.

VIII. Francis Sutton Asks a Question

       Table of Contents

      London never sleeps. Of the dead silence that lays over the world, the quiet peaceful hush of all living things, London knows nothing.

      Long after the roar of the waking world dies down, there is a fitful rumbling of traffic, a jingling of bells, as belated hansoms come clip-clopping through the deserted streets, the whine of a fast motorcar — then a little silence.

      A minute’s rest from world noises, then the distant shriek of a locomotive and the staccato clatter of trucks. Somewhere, in a faraway railway yard, with shunters’ lanterns swinging, the work of a new day has already begun.

      A far-off rattle of slow-moving wheels, nearer and nearer — a market cart on its way to Covent Garden;

      a steady tramp of feet — policemen going to their beats in steady procession. More wheels, more shrieks, a church clock strikes the hour, a hurrying footstep in the street….

      All these things Lambaire heard, tossing from side to side in his bed. All these and more, for to his ear there came sounds which had no origin save in his imagination. Feet paused at his door; voices whispered excitedly. He heard the click of steel, the squeak of a key opening a handcuff. He dozed at intervals, only to sit up in bed suddenly, the sweat pouring off him, his ears strained to catch some fancied sound. The little clock over the fireplace ticked mercilessly, “ten years, ten years,” until he got out of bed, and after a futile attempt to stop it, wrapped it in a towel and then in a dressing-gown to still its ominous prophecy.

      All night long he lay, turning over in his mind plans, schemes, methods of escape, if escape were necessary. His bandaged head throbbed unpleasantly, but still he thought, and thought, and thought.

      If Amber had the plates, what would he do with them? It was hardly likely he would take them to the police. Blackmail, perhaps. That was more in Amber’s line. A weekly income on condition he kept his mouth shut. If that was the course adopted, it was plain sailing. Whitey would do something, Whitey was a desperate, merciless devil…. Lambaire shuddered — there must be no murder though.

      He had been reading that very day an article which showed that only four per cent, of murderers in England escape detection… if by a miracle this blew over, he would try a straighter course. Drop the “ silver business “ and the “ printing business “ and concentrate on the River of Stars. That was legitimate. If there was anything shady about the flotation of the Company, that would all be forgotten in the splendid culmination…. De Beers would come along and offer to buy a share; he would be a millionaire… other men have made millions and have lived down their shady past. There was Isadore Jarach, who had a palatial residence off Park Lane, he was a bad egg in his beginnings. There was another man… what was his name…?

      He fell into a troubled sleep just as the dawn began to show faintly. A knocking at the door aroused him, and he sprang out of bed. He was full of the wildest fears, and his eyes wandered to the desk wherein lay a loaded Derringer.

      “Open the door, Lambaire.”

      It was Whitey’s voice, impatiently demanding admission, and with a trembling hand Lambaire slipped back the little bolt of the door.

      Whitey entered the room grumbling. If he too had spent a sleepless night, there was little in his appearance to indicate the fact,

      “It’s a good job you live at an hotel,” he said. “I should have knocked and knocked without getting in. Phew! Wreck! You’re a wreck.”

      Whitey