Byways to Evil. Lloyd Biggle, jr.

      Lady Sarah looked at me quickly. “One peg for you. But even if he doesn’t have to support himself, he can’t remain in hiding forever. He’ll need an occasional breath of air. Chief Inspector Mewer’s problem is that he has no curiosity and very little imagination. Also, he is well-versed only in police matters. He knows all about the regulations for this or that, but he hasn’t begun to comprehend how fantastic the Shadwell Market crime is. Or, for that matter, how fantastic it is to have a missing giant.”

      “Are we still leaving the Shadwell murder to him?” I asked.

      “For the present. We have two investigations of our own to launch. One of them concerns the giant—to find out what has become of Hob Hagan and to learn who the giant axe murderer really was. The other concerns the river thefts.”

      Lynes looked crushed. “Does that mean I can’t exhibit Hagan, my lady?”

      “Of course you can,” Lady Sarah said reassuringly. “The axe murderer pretended to be Hob Hagan. We want the real Hob Hagan to think we believe that. Go ahead and exhibit him complete with mole and minus his birthmark. In the meantime, we will launch the most thorough search possible for him.”

      “One would think a man that size wouldn’t be difficult to find,” Lynes said.

      “Obviously he has mastered the art of keeping out of sight,” Lady Sarah said. “The one advantage we have is that anyone who does see him will remember him. Sideshow owners, for example. Apparently Hagan wasn’t interested in joining one, but a sideshow owner would certainly try to recruit any giant he saw, and if one has caught a glimpse of Hagan recently, he’ll be able to tell us where he saw him. London’s Bohemia would be another place to look. Artists would find a giant-sized model fascinating. What a find Hob Hagan would be for an artist painting a David and Goliath scene!”

      “He could hardly make a career of that,” I objected.

      “No, but if an artist has made use of him, or tried to, he’ll remember him. Other artists will remember that so-an-so had a giant model. There are a number of occupations where his height or his strength would be of enormous advantage to him. We’ll have to begin our search at once and spread our net as widely as possible to find out whether anyone remembers seeing him and to alert all of our people to watch for him. We may be lucky. If we aren’t, we will still be looking for him at this time next year.”

      “We’ll start tomorrow,” I promised. “I’ll tell Rick and Charles.”

      Rick Allward and Charles Tupper, Lady Sara’s two footmen, were not often called upon to function as footmen, but they were invaluable to her in other capacities. Tall footmen were considered a mark of distinction for a household. The taller they were, the higher their wages. Lady Sara’s footmen were somewhat below average height—this was considered by her friends to be another of her eccentricities—and they were paid fifty pounds yearly and also provided with living quarters for their families in Connaught Mews, which amounted to extremely generous wages. They were masters of disguise, could lose themselves in a crowd in a twinkling, could follow a suspect from the docks to the Houses of Parliament or Hampstead Heath without being detected, and were invaluable support in any kind of a fracas. They were, in fact, expert investigators. They loved their work and loved working for Lady Sara.

      “We will take a day and a night,” Lady Sara said. “I want all of our agents and informers alerted to look for the missing giant. Those near the river should also be asked to watch for suspicious activity around the warehouses. We can begin the two searches at once.”

      “Charles has Lord Woolston’s sharper to deal with tonight,” I reminded her. “That will make tomorrow a long day for him.”

      “He will have a full night’s sleep,” she said confidently. “It won’t take him long to settle the sharper.”

      The artists left, and the moment the formalities of their departure had been attended to, Lady Sara turned her attention to the work that still lay ahead of her. The next item on her agenda was Blanche Dillion’s errant lover.

      “His real name is Roy Koby,” she said. “Sometimes he calls himself Kingsley Lyman or Lyman Kingsley, but he also uses other names. He has been living on his good looks for years by using ingenious variations on this dodge. Sooner or later someone will be outraged enough to make a formal complaint to the police, publicity or no, and his career will be temporarily interrupted. Our task is to make him think this is the time. Shall we go?”

      We first enquired for Kingsley Lyman at the Bloomsbury address he had given to Blanche Dillion. The landlady, a severe-looking, elderly woman, disclaimed any knowledge of him.

      “Obviously she is in his pay, but it doesn’t really matter,” Lady Sara said. “I’m sure Koby only used this as an accommodation address. Now that he has written Blanche off, he already has a new one.”

      We next visited the Bishopgate Police Station to borrow a constable named Perkins who sometimes worked with Lady Sara. She told his inspector she wanted to frighten someone, and he understood at once that she was dealing with a law violator the police couldn’t touch.

      Constable Perkins was elderly, for a constable, with a solemn face and an air of such profound gravity that anyone not familiar with his slow, fumbling thought processes immediately received the impression of a trusted official regularly consulted by the commissioner and privy to all the secrets of police officialdom.

      Our next objective was “The Malt Worm,” a flourishing pub near Aldgate High Street. “Malt worm” was a term applied to habitues of taverns in Elizabethan times. It had no special significance in Aldgate High Street except perhaps to suggest that this particular public house once had a landlord with a historical bent.

      We didn’t enter the public house. Instead, we went round to a side entrance and rang the bell of the most exclusive club in London. No directory of clubs listed it—which was not surprising since it had no name. The members jocularly called it “The Crib,” a term commonly used for addresses far more disreputable than this one. Its membership qualifications had never been written down nor did they need to be. The basic requirement was a simple one. All of the members were, one way or another, crooks.

      It was an excellent club. It never closed. It had no licence, but the best quality ales, liquors, and wines were always available. It was full of nooks and corners where confidences could be exchanged and jobs planned without any danger of being overheard.

      And it was, as I said, exclusive. Merely being a crook didn’t qualify one for membership. One had to be a respected craftsman, admired for the deftness with which that crookedness was exercised.

      I jerked the bell-pull, and a panel opened in the door. A youngish male face with sharp eyes studied us. “I want the Gaffer—quickly!” Lady Sara said.

      The panel closed. After a brief delay, it opened again. This time the face was infinitely old and bearded. The eyes were pale and watery. A thin, cracked voice said, with as much politeness as a voice with that timbre could manage, “Afternoon, Lady Sara.”

      “Gaffer, I’ve got to see Roy Koby immediately. He is going to be nicked if nothing is done to queer it.”

      The pale eyes studied the three of us and settled on Constable Perkins. The cracked voice said perplexedly, “You’ve brought a peeler with you to keep Roy from being nicked?”

      “The constable is in with us,” Lady Sara said impatiently. “Where do you think I get my information?”

      The door opened. “I’ll send for Roy,” the Gaffer said. “Make yourselves comfortable.”

      He was surprisingly erect and quick on his feet for one so old. Probably that quickness had saved him from many an arrest.

      We found ourselves in a long, narrow room. An alcove at either end was furnished with chairs and sofas. Here members conducted business with outsiders they didn’t want to take into the club, and outsiders waited to be vetted before they were admitted.

      We seated ourselves