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Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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The Strange Case of Mr. Spearing—Losing Credit—
Sexton Blake Makes a Wager—Accepted.
"IT seems to me, Tinker," Sexton Blake said musingly, as he bent from his chair to pull the ears of his bloodhound Pedro, "that I am a good deal of a fool."
"Of a what; sir? " Tinker demanded in amazement.
"A common or garden fool, my Lad " the great detective persisted.
Tinker closed the book that he was reading, after marking the place, and faced his master. He guessed that Sexton Blake had a good reason for accusing himself in such a curious fashion, and he wanted to know what it was.
"None of the cases gone wrong, I hope, sir?" he asked anxiously
"No! "
Sexton Blake spoke shortly, jerking the words out between puffs at his cigar.
"Then what's the matter, sir? " Tinker persisted.
The detective did not answer at once, but smoked on jerkily. Presently he reached a hand back to a bookcase behind him and drew out a kind of ledger, and began to turn the pages, scanning them with his eyes.
"In 1899," he said, almost as if speaking his thoughts aloud, "I ran the murderer of Bronlow to ground, In the same year I see that I cleared up the affair of the Ingelby diamonds, a case involving jewels worth a fourth of a million. During the next year I. was successfully engaged in investigating the Elmere heir case, and after that——Bah! What is the use of raking up unpleasant memories and trying to convince you that I am a fool, my lad?"
Tinker looked distinctly surprised. He had never seen his master in a mood like this, and wondered what had caused it. Why, too, should these old successes jar?
"I don't understand, sir?" he said eagerly. "If you cleared up the cases, surely you got the credit and the ——"
"There you are wrong," the detective broke in. It was seldom that his placid face betrayed a touch of anger, but it certainly did so now. "I worked up those cases after the police had failed, and I succeeded. I was fool enough to let the police in at the finish. They made the arrests, Their names filled the papers, while mine——"
"You didn't need advertisement, sir," Tinker put in proudly. "What did it matter to you if the police got a little of your credit?"
With a shake of the shoulders, as if throwing unpleasant thoughts away from him, Sexton Blake rose from his chair, crossed the room, and laid a hand affectionately on the boy's shoulder.
"Good for you, Tinker," he said quietly; "thank you for saying that. I must be pretty ungrateful. My career has been a remarkably successful one, and I ought not to be discontented. Still"—there was a curious look in the detective's eyes—" I fancy that I shall make the police repay me yet. It isn't the majority of the men—they are all fine fellows—but just a few near the top, who, bound up in red-tape, snatch at every bit of credit which comes their way, whether or not they have any right to it. By the bye, Tinker, if Mr. Spearing calls, show him up."
"Mr. Spearing of the Yard, sir?" Tinker queried.
"Yes."
There was a curious twinkle in Sexton Blake's eyes as he went out of the room, Pedro following close at his heels, and Tinker, noticing his master's expression, smiled too, It meant business.
Towards the evening, an hour or two later, a vigorous use of the knocker called Tinker to the front door, and at the same moment Sexton Blake, who had been resting in his bed-room, for he had been very busy for some days, strolled into his consulting-room. Scarcely had he seated himself and lit a cigar, when the door was opened, and Tinker announced, in would-be impressive tones:
"Mr. Spearing! "
Mr. Spearing was of the flesh fleshy, for he certainly must have weighed a good eighteen stone. Despite this fact, he was far from being an ungainly man, and his bulk would not have prevented him being an ugly man in a fight. His face, which was red, relieved across the upper lip by a moustache, was broad and rather flabby, the mouth hard, the eyes twinkling, but with a touch of greediness in them. This was Mr. Spearing, the well-known member of the detective force.
Mr. Spearing, still wearing his hard felt hat on the side of his closely-cropped head, swung across the room, planted himself before Sexton Blake, his feet well apart, and held out his huge hand.
"Thought I'd drop in—case settled—got our man!" he announced, speaking in a deep, "move on" kind of voice, "Got your wire—thanks!"
Sexton Blake flicked the ash from his cigar, and waved his visitor to a chair. There was an eager light in his eyes, hut it was hidden by the lids, which were drawn low.
"And you honoured me with this call because——?" Sexton Blake queried.
Mr. Spearing of the Yard leant forward in his chair, and spread out his large hands with an air of expansive good nature.
"Did your best—meant well—got our man," he explained jerkily.
The lids dropped still lower over Sexton Blake's eyes, and the corners of his mouth seemed to grow more dogged in expression, Several times in the past he had pulled Spearing out of awkward corners, and in return had received no credit for his exertions. Well, he meant to try and teach the official a lesson. Just now he had time on his hands, and he saw a way of filling it without wasting it.
"My wire, telling you where to look for your man, was of assistance to you, then?" he asked.
Mr. Spearing's large hands, which seemed to be the most expressive and active part of him, went out in gesture of mild pretest.
"Confirmed me—had worked it out before—had him anyway," he announced.
"You would have succeeded even if I had not sent you the wire?" Sexton Blake asked languidly.
"Yes—never knew the Yard fail to find a man—system too good," Mr. Spearing answered, laughing softly.
That settled Sexton Blake. If Mr. Spearing had acknowledged his debt of gratitude, Sexton Blake would have been satisfied; but as he chose not to do so, the private detective, the man who prided himself that he had never failed in a case, meant to teach him a lesson.
"You would back the Yard to find any man who disappeared provided that he remained in London or its suburbs?' Sexton Blake asked quietly.
"Yes—never failed yet—system too good," Mr. Spearing answered; but he glanced sharply at Sexton Blake, wondering what he was driving at.
Sexton Blake rose to his feet, the lids raised from his eyes, his eyes gleaming.
"Very well, Mr. Spearing," he said, "I am going to prove that even you, with all the forces at your command, can fail, even as you would have done in this last case if I had not taken the trouble to put you on the track."
"What do you mean—insulting—fail to understand?" Mr. Spearing cried, his face becoming redder than ever.
"Merely this," Sexton Blake continued smoothly. "In a short time I shall disappear, and a reward of £500 will be offered for my discovery."
"You mean———"
"I mean this," Sexton Blake continued calmly, "that I am ready to pay £500 to the man who finds me after I have disappeared. I shall remain in London and its suburbs, and I shall not even go into hiding. Yet you will not find me. In that way, Mr. Spearing, I will prove to you that you can be at fault."
"This is a challenge—honour of whole force concerned," Mr. Spearing blustered, jamming his hat on to his head at an alarming angle, until it seemed likely to damage one ear permanently, and rising to his feet. "Disappear—soon as you like—I'll find you—good-day!"
With a swaggering air of outraged dignity, Mr. Spearing left the room, and Sexton Blake, dropping back into his chair, laughed softly.
"You mean to do it, really, sir?" Tinker asked eagerly.
"Yes."
"Poor old Spearing! " Tinker cried; and grinned gleefully. "Do I disappear, too?"
"No," Sexton Blake answered, as he lit a fresh cigar. "I fancy that our friend of the Yard will have earned the £500 well enough if he succeeds in getting me."
Mainly Street Police-Station—The New Constable-A Bad Character—
Sergeant Lightning—The First Capture—Going Home with a Batch.
IN the office of the Mainly Street police-station all was order, quiet, and method. At his desk sat Inspector Smeeth, his ledgers before him, scanning the reports of the men who had come off night duty. Nothing of interest had happened, despite the fact that this particular station was situated in the middle of a very busy suburb, and the inspector looked rather bored. Slipping the reports into a drawer of his desk, after making an entry or two in one of the ledgers, he beckoned the constable at the door to approach.
"New constable come yet, Saunders?" he queried, as the man touched his helmet and stood at attention.
"Yes, sir, he's in the waiting-room," the man answered.
"What's he like?" Smeeth asked, with a spark of interest in his eyes. "We need smart men pretty badly just now. This neighbourhood seems to be the home of pickpockets, confidence-trick men, and hooligans, What's the new man like—smart?"
Constable Saunders grinned, and tugged at his moustache hastily as his chief frowned.
"Can't say, sir," he answered hurriedly. "Tallish man, rather thin, fair moustache, don't seem over active, ain't said more than a dozen words since he came."
Inspector Smeeth sighed, and passed a hand wearily over his grey hair. His post was no easy one. He had a staff of men under him who would have gone through fire and water in the accomplishment of their duties, but going through fire and water does not put down petty crime in a district, and there was a mighty lot of it, as the inspector had said, in the neighbourhood controlled by the Mainly Street station.
"Show Constable Brown in," he said.
Saunders departed on his errand, to return a few seconds later with a tall constable, bent a trifle at the shoulders, and whose uniform seemed to have fallen away at the chest. Smeeth frowned as he looked at the man.
"'Tention!" he cried sharply, as the new constable touched his helmet and held out an official-looking envelope in his left hand.
"Papers from my last chief, sir," he said in a slow, dreamy sort of voice.
Taking the envelope, Inspector Smeeth tore it open, and quickly glanced over the contents. He sighed as he mastered them, placed his elbows on the desk, and looked searchingly at Constable Brown.
"The report states that your character is excellent, Brown," Inspector Smeeth said, "but that at present you have not distinguished yourself. I hope that you will do better here—you have plenty of opportunities."
"Yes, sir," the new constable murmured. "Any particular line of capture wanted?"
"What—what the dickens do you mean by that?" Smeeth snapped, thinking that the new constable was possibly trying to make a joke—which is strictly against the regulations.
Constable Brown turned his eyes languidly until they rested on the inspector's face, made an effort to straighten his bent shoulders, and touched his helmet again.
"Only seeking information, sir," he answered humbly.
"Very well," Smeeth said, deciding that the new man had not meant to joke. "You will really take up your new duties tomorrow. A sergeant will take you round your beat now, and give you a few points, so that you will have no need to—er—seek information tomorrow."
"Very good, sir."
"Send Sergeant Lightning in," Smeeth ordered, turning to Saunders; and the constable departed on his errand.
"You sent for me, sir?" a voice wheezed, rather than said, a few seconds later, from behind the new constable's back, He turned languidly, caught sight of the new-comer, and hastily suppressed a grin.
Sergeant Lightning was short, fat, wearing about two lengths of belt instead of one, and with a round face in which the eyes seemed to have been stuck like currants into a bun. He stood on a firm foundation of feet, which he slid carefully along the floor, as if he were a boy learning to skate. Skating up to the desk, he saluted, and wheezed again:
"You sent for me, sir?"
"Yes," Smeeth answered sharply. "You will take Constable Brown round his beat. Edge Road to the corner of the Laleham Infirmary for Dogs. Explain the nature of the work to him as you go."
Sergeant Lightning saluted once more, and skated out of the office, the new constable following. They passed through the passage, and out through the main doorway. On both posts notices were pasted, and the new constable halted before one bearing the words " Five Hundred Pounds Reward!"
"Ah!" Sergeant Lightning sighed. "If I could get that, my lad, I'd chuck the force. I weren't born fer it—I weren't really. I'm all fer ease an' quiet, I am. Not as I mind work, mark you. Gimme a job as 'all porter, with a nice comfy chair an' perquisites, an' I'd be all over it."
"But what's that reward for?" Constable Brown asked, with a show of eagerness.
"Sexton Blake—amateur detective—missing," Sergeant Lightning explained. "Good sort, too—'elped our chaps more'n once, though the chiefs don't howl about it."
"But come along, an' I'll show you the beat, all the shops, an' the best pub fer beer, which "—and Sergeant Lightning winked heavily at his new subordinate—" is ter be taken on'y when off dooty, an' in limited quantities—which is sense, and accordin' ter the regulations."
And so Constable Brown, known until recently as Sexton Blake, followed Sergeant Lightning down the road to inspect his new beat. The detective had taken a curious means of throwing Mr. Spearing off the scent, and, so far, he had succeeded.
Mainly Street, in which stood the police-station, led into a main thoroughfare, down the centre of which ran electric trams, varied by motor-'buses and a variety of vehicles, both horse and machine driven. Both sides of the road were lined with shops, and even at this comparatively early hour of the morning, the pavements were crowded, mostly by women, the men already having gone to their daily work.
"It's this here kind o' thing," Sergeant Lightning observed confidentially as he skated slowly along, squeezing his fat body through the crowds, "what puts me off the perfession. If I was in the country force, a-strollin' about lanes and sich-like, I wouldn't mind, but all this hurly-burly an' shovin' fair takes me breath away. It was me name as got me into the force, what helped me to become a sergeant, an' I wish it would get me out again as quick."
Sexton Blake, though apparently listening to the sergeant's remarks, was not idle. Many and many a time in the past, when passing through the streets, he could have taken pickpockets in the act, but had always refrained from doing so, preferring to leave such trivial work to the police, But he himself was in the force now, and he did not intend to be a useless member of it. He would teach them what one man can do in a district, and at the same time prove to Spearing how active and alive a man can be and still remain undetected.
At one corner, where the trams stopped to pick up passengers, Sergeant Lightning paused.
"Your beat begins here," he announced solemnly, "an runs——"
Before the sergeant could fairly realise what had happened, Sexton Blake had darted across the road, thrust his way into the crowd struggling to force itself into a car that was already half full, to emerge a few seconds later with a ruffianly looking youth of about twenty years of age in tow. Sexton Blake had him by the right hand and the collar of his coat.
"Me purse! I've had my purse taken!" an elderly woman screamed, struggling back from the steps of the car, much to the annoyance of a small man who had been in hopes that he would be able to sail in in her tracks.
Sexton Blake wrenched open the hand of his prisoner, took out a small and dilapidated purse, and held it out to the woman.
"Is that the article?" he asked quietly.
"Bless you!—yes," the woman answered joyfully, fairly snatching the purse up, and hastily taking a threepenny-bit out of it.
Sexton Blake, in his character of Constable Brown, took the coin solemnly, and dropped it into his pocket just as sergeant Lightning reached the scene of the disturbance, A crowd had already collected, and many an ugly remark was hurled at the captured thief, for purse-snatching had been rather too prevalent for some time past in that district.
"Hugly!" one navvy yelled, "leave 'im be, sir, an' I'll a-settle wiv him. Let me bash him, boss—it ain't no good juggin' him!"
"Now then, madam," Sergeant Lightning said, prodding the elderly woman with his pencil to attract her attention, "name and address?"
This was given readily enough, and Sergeant Lightning, with Sexton Blake and his prisoner in the rear, led the way majestically back to the pavement, where another constable, who had just come up, was trying to disperse the crowd. The sergeant turned back towards the police-station, but Sexton Blake touched him on the arm.
"Best send the prisoner back by this constable," he said quietly. "I've got to see my beat, you know."
Sergeant Lightning hesitated, then gave in, He was not fond of walking, and it was quite enough for him that he had got to take the new constable right round the beat. He therefore allowed Sexton Blake to hand the prisoner to the other constable, and the two proceeded on their way. Sergeant Lightning looked distinctly dignified now, and skated with more grace than ever.
"My lad," he said solemnly, as they turned into a quieter thoroughfare, "I prides us that we made that capture rather pretty."
"Not so bad, sergeant," Sexton Blake agreed, in a voice that seemed to suggest that he was in the habit of catching a pickpocket about once every two minutes, "Wonder if we shall strike anything else this morning?"
Sergeant Lightning gasped. It was fully twelve months since he had been mixed up with an arrest of any kind, and he was quite prepared to rest on his laurels.
"Anything else?" he gasped. "You are a-goin' it, Brown!"
Constable Brown stroked his fair moustache, and looked about him thoughtfully.
"I like tu be busy," he announced. "What d'you say to trying to run in a bookmaker or two?"
"What!" Sergeant Lightning panted, leaning up against the wall for support.
The road in which the sergeant and constable stood was one connecting two large thoroughfares, and public-houses, each with its knot of loafers, were plentiful. Sexton Blake, with eyes trained to notice every little detail, had seen one or two things the moment he had turned the corner. He was fairly started on his work now, and he meant to teach his chiefs something.
"The fact is," Sexton Blake announced, "I can point out at least six bookmakers to you, sergeant."
"Dessay I could do the same," Sergeant Lightning growled. "But what's the use? We'd nab 'em, an' find not so much as a blessed slip upon 'em. I know, I've played the game afore."
Sexton Blake hesitated for a moment, then he took Sergeant Lightning by the arm and led him down a side-street, in which a dealer in second-hand clothes had a shop.
"Look here, sergeant," he said, "I'm not on duty, so it doesn't matter if I take my uniform off."
"Ain't allowed ter go about in vest an'——" the sergeant began to object.
"Wait here," Sexton Blake ordered calmly. stationing the sergeant outside the shop, "while I go inside."
There was something in Sexton Blake's voice, despite the fact that he was supposed only to be a constable now, which practically compelled the sergeant to obey. He leant himself up against the front of the shop, fixed his eyes upon space, and waited patiently. The events of the morning had been too rapid for him, and his head was in a whirl.
Less than ten minutes later Sexton Blake emerged from the shop. His uniform was gone, and he was wearing a rather sporting-looking suit of grey. To crown all his head was decked by a flat-brimmed bowler, the bow of which had been draped round to the back.
He took no notice of the sergeant, but stood looking into the shop window with an air of great interest.
"Sergeant," he whispered.
Sergeant Lightning turned his head slowly, and fairly bucked away from the shop front.
"It ain't!" he gasped—" It ain't Constable Brown? Oh, go away! Disguise ain't bad in its place, but no member o' the force 'as a right to look like that. Go an'——"
"You will stay where you are, sergeant," Sexton Blake put in calmly, "if you want to have your name connected with the capture; and you will come round to the Anchor— I think that is the name of the public-house round the corner— as soon as you hear my whistle. You might bring another constable here, we may need him."
Before Sergeant Lightning could speak, Sexton Blake had disappeared round the corner, and walked jauntily into the main road. Entering a telegraph office he dispatched a wire, sauntered up the side-turning again, and entered the Anchor public-house. The saloon bar was occupied by three people, two of whom were reading sporting papers.
Having ordered a drink, Sexton Blake perched himself on a stool, pulled a paper from his pocket, and began to read the sporting news. Once or twice he marked certain names of horses with his pencil, and had the satisfaction of seeing that the three other men in the bar were watching him. He knew perfectly well that they were bookmakers— of the small type who do street-betting and disappear if they can't pay—and he meant to have them before he left the public-house.
Nearly half an hour passed, and Sexton Blake ordered another drink. As he paid for it a telegraph boy entered the bar.
"Anyone of the name of Smith here?" he asked.
"That's me, my bonny colt," Sexton Blake answered promptly, and took the wire. "No answer."
With an air of excitement Sexton Blake read the wire, which was the one he had despatched a short time back, placed it carefully in his pocket, finished his drink, and rose to leave. The three men were eyeing him eagerly, and he knew that he had them, though he did not seem to be paying the slightest attention to them.
"Somethin' 'ot for to-day?" one of the men, big and burly of build, suggested in a hoarse voice.
"You've struck it, old son," Sexton Blake agreed, slapping the pocket where the wire lay. "It's a tip straight from the 'oss's mouth, He whispered it, confidential like, to a friend of mine last night as he give him 'is corn—an' there you are. Worst luck, I ain't got an account running now, so don't know where to get a few quids on. It'll be a nice price, too."
The big man rose, and took Sexton Blake by the arm.
"I does a bit that way myself sometimes," he said. "Come outside."
At the side of the public-house there was a little passage on to which a number of dingy gardens backed, and into this the big man led the way.
"What's the name o' the 'oss?" he asked eagerly.
"Sudden Death," Sexton Blake answered readily, giving the name of a horse that had absolutely no chance for the big race of the day.
The big man threw aside all reserve now, and winked hastily to his two friends, who had followed him into the passage.
"How much?" be queried, pulling out a notebook.
"Two quid," Sexton Blake said, handing over the money.
Inside another minute both the other men had booked a similar bet. Then Sexton Blake did a strange thing. From his pocket he jerked a whistle, and blew it shrilly.
An oath broke from the big man, and he darted for the opening of the passage, his friends behind him. After them went Blake, and gripped the last two by their collars just as they reached the open.
Whack! Their heads came together with a thud, and with a jerk Sexton Blake threw them half-stunned to the ground and raced after the big man. He need not have troubled himself. Round the corner came Sergeant Lightning and a constable. The big man saw them, but it was too late to dodge. Straight into the arms of Sergeant Lightning he ran, and fell on top of him. A short struggle followed; then, with their three prisoners in tow, Sergeant Lightning, Sexton Blake, and the constable, marched back to the police station.
Leaving the prisoners, safely guarded, in the waiting room, Sexton Blake and Sergeant Lightning entered the office, Inspector Smeeth looked up sharply, and frowned as he caught sight of Sexton Blake's attire.
"How dare you!" he cried sternly. Are you mad, or-"
"Doing my duty, sir," Sexton Blake interrupted, with a languid smile. "Thought I might as well begin work today."
"I know—I know!!" Smeeth said sharply; "we've got the pickpocket!'
"And we've got three bookmakers," Sexton Blake remarked.
"Three, sir," Sergeant Lightning wheezed, "after a desprit struggle."
Inspector Smeeth rose to his feet, then dropped back helplessly into his seat again.
"Bring them in to be charged," he said, by an effort; adding, in an under-tone: "I can see the neighbourhood not wanting a police-station if this goes on."
A Fortnight Later—The Marks on the Wall—Sexton Blake
Spots Crimpy Snark—A Warm Time—Pedro to the Rescue.
ONLY a fortnight had passed since Sexton Blake, known as Constable Brown, had joined the Mainly Street Division, but in that time he had put a round dozen of captures to his credit, and more than one man in the division looked at him with envious eyes. The constables were friendly enough, however, for he always let them in on a good thing whenever it was possible, and more than one had been brought within sight of promotion by his aid. Even Inspector Smeeth had been compelled to recognise the new man's astounding merit, and the consequence was that Constable Brown was now engaged, almost entirely, upon plain-clothes work.
Entering the station one evening to take up his duties, Sexton Blake reported himself to the inspector.
"Look here, Brown," the latter said cordially, "there have been several burglaries in the neighbourhood of late, as you know, so I want you just to take a look round. Better keep an eye on the better streets."
"Very well, sir. Can I take a couple of pairs of handcuffs?"
"Surely, one pair is enough?"
Sexton Blake shrugged his shoulders languidly.
"Accidents will happen, sir," he said; "and I might manage to collar a brace at a pinch."
"Very well," Inspector Smeeth agreed shortly. "By the bye, I rather fancy that the Yard will want you soon. I have heard from them, and you are to go there as soon as there is a vacancy."
Sexton Blake could not suppress a smile. He thought of Spearing looking all over London for him in vain, with all his best men at work, while his wanted man was rapidly winning a name in the regular police force.
Leaving the station, the handcuffs snug in his pocket, Sexton Blake made his way towards the better part of the suburb. He had not been idle during his spare time, and already he had done something towards tracing the gang of burglars who were just now terrorising the neighbourhood. He rather enjoyed the work, for it was mere child's play to him after the kind of cases which he had been unravelling through the past years.
Reaching a fine, broad road, in which the houses stood back in their own grounds, Sexton Blake moved along in the shadows. He walked aimlessly, apparently, looking neither to the right nor to the left, until he had turned a bend in the road. Then, darting through a gateway, he hid himself behind the fence.
He had been followed ever since he left the police-station, and he knew it. He also meant to find out who it was following him. More than once he had been threatened after making a capture, and he realised that there were plenty of roughs in the neighbourhood who would be willing to put him out of the way if they could do so without risk.
Scarcely had Sexton Blake hidden himself, before a short, squat man came slinking along in the shadow, moving on his toes. The detective allowed him to draw level with the gateway, then he stepped quietly out and confronted him, at the same time drawing a cigar from his pocket.
"Can you oblige me with a light?" he said pleasantly, as the man shrank back, but not before Sexton Blake had caught sight of a square, ugly face, and a wavy piece of hair sticking out from beneath the peak of a shabby cap. In a moment he recognised the man as a ruffian known as Crimpy Snark, who had already been in prison more than once, usually for robbery with violence.
"May I trouble you for that light?" Sexton Blake persisted, as the man still made no movement.
With a hastiness which seemed to betoken nervousness, Snark handed over a box of matches, and Sexton Blake struck a light. He glanced at the man as the light flared up, and dropped the match quickly.
"Why, it's Crimpy Snark!" he ejaculated, with an air of great surprise.
"What if it are?" the man snarled, "Ain't I allowed to walk abaht as well as you? Ain't this a free country— ain' it?"
"Free as air, my friend," Sexton Blake agreed; "but it's a pity that some of you look upon everything as free, even when those things belong to other people."
Crimpy Snark drew back a couple of steps, clenched his hands, and looked ugly. Sexton Blake, taking a box of matches from his pocket, lit his cigar.
"If I were you, Snark," he said quietly, "I should go home. The night air isn't good for you, especially when you take to following detectives about. Go home!"
Now, as it happened, a particular pal of Crimpy Snark's had been captured only two days back by Sexton Blake. The ruffian remembered this, and, glancing at the detective's slightly bowed shoulders, did a foolish thing. He leapt forward, snarling like a wild beast, a life-preserver raised in his right hand.
Only once did Sexton Blake strike, but then he struck hard, and Crimpy Snark landed with his face in a mud-heap. He rose slowly to his feet, and edged away from the detective until he was stopped by the fence. Sexton Blake approached the man, picking up the life-preserver as he went.
"Give over!" Crimpy Snark yelled, all the fight gone out of him—" give over! "It one yer own size!"
"Go home!" Sexton Blake ordered sharply, in the tone that he would have used to a dog. "Go home!"
Crimpy Snark slunk away, one hand pressed against his face, as if to make sure that it was all there, and halted when he considered himself safe out of the range of Sexton Blake.
"I'll do yer for it, Constable Brown!" he yelled. "I'll do yer, if I swing for it!"
Taking no notice of the man or his threats, Sexton Blake turned on his heel and resumed his walk. It was lonely enough, and he had plenty of time to think. He began to realise that his life was in danger, for men of Crimpy Snark's type were apt to carry out their threats, especially when they could get others to help them.
For two hours Sexton Blake tramped on through the practically deserted streets; then turned and retraced his steps, stopping now and again to exchange a word or two with one of the constables on night duty. He reached the spot where Snark had attempted to assault him, then stopped short before the gateway.
On one of the posts were certain marks in chalk. They were small but quite legible, and the detective, well-versed in everything to do with criminals, was able to read their meaning easily enough.
The house, a large one, occupied by a wealthy man, was to be burgled that night. It had evidently been marked out by a spy, and the rest of the gang would come along, find the marks, and set to work.
Standing by the gateway, well in the shadow, Sexton Blake began to think rapidly. The hour was already late, and the burglary would have to take place soon if it was to be successful. A mile down the road the detective had passed a constable, and now he wondered whether he had better fetch the man back.
No, there was no time for that. He would have to stay where he was, and chance having to cope with the burglars single-handed.
Having settled the matter in his mind, Sexton Blake turned and strode through the gateway, meaning to hide near the house, so that he might hear the burglars approach even if they came from the back.
Two paces Sexton Blake took up the drive, then half a dozen dark figures came leaping out from the shelter of the trees, straight at him. Like a flash of light, Sexton Blake knew what had happened. Crimpy Snark had put the marks there as a decoy, and then waited with his friends to wipe out old scores. The neighbourhood had certainly grown a trifle warm for Constable Brown.
With a rush, but without a sound, the six men charged at the detective. The first one to reach him went down, felled by a blow between the eyes, but before he could strike again, the rest were upon him, the fallen man had gripped him by the ankles, and he was thrown heavily.
Sexton Blake knew very well that his life was at stake, and fought like a madman. He had hurt himself when he fell, and his temples were throbbing like hammers. One of the ruffians was striking at him with his fist every time he got the chance, and had already got more than one nasty blow home.
Suddenly a curious thing happened. From a short distance away came the baying of a great hound, and a heavy body fell with a crash right on top of the struggling men.
It was Pedro, the detective's bloodhound, but how the animal had got there he did not trouble to try and think.
"At 'em, boy!—at 'em!" the voice of Tinker yelled; and with surprising suddenness the ruffians leapt up from their victim and bolted down the drive. Crimpy Snark was the last to go.
Staggering to his feet, feeling dazed and weak, Sexton Blake caught sight of the man running, and turned to Pedro, who was being held in check by Tinker.
"After—hold!" the detective commanded, freeing the great dog.
Down the drive went Pedro, down the drive went Crimpy Snark, and it was the dog who won. He seized the man by the back of his coat, fairly jerked him off his feet, then stood over him, growling threateningly.
"How did you get here?" Sexton Blake asked of Tinker, as he clicked a pair of handcuffs on to Crimpy Snark's wrists.
"Thought I'd bring Pedro for a walk round this neighbourhood, sir," the boy answered readily, "and by chance we caught sight of you, and followed."
"Just as well for me that you did, my lad," the detective said gratefully, "for I owe you my life again. But surely I must have seen you if you followed all the way?"
Tinker lowered his head a trifle, as if afraid that he would be reprimanded.
"The fact is, sir," he explained, "we didn't follow all the way. Caught sight of three men making for the back of this place, and was going to follow them round when——"
"How long ago is this?" Sexton Blake interrupted sharply.
"First saw them a clear two hours ago, sir," Tinker answered, "and kept them in sight. They had only just gone round to the back when I heard the sounds of the struggle."
Luck was on Sexton Blake's side. He pulled himself together, feeling very little the worse for his efforts, and glanced up towards the house. Even as he looked, a faint spark of light showed through a crack in the shutters of one of the windows.
Crimpy Snark had not been working with the burglars, though he was probably the man who had chalked the marks on the gate, and though Crimpy Snark's gang had fled defeated, the burglars were at their work.
Sexton Blake turned to Snark, and gripped him by the arm.
"You will come with me," he whispered sternly, "without making a sound, or I'll leave the dog to settle with you."
"Not that, mister!" the ruffian gasped. "I ain't partial to dawgs."
Still keeping a hold on Crimpy Snark's arm, Sexton Blake hurried quietly up the drive, along a narrow pathway, and round to the back of the house. Here he paused long enough to gag the ruffian with a handkerchief, and fasten him by means of his own belt to a tree; then he turned his attention to the house.
"Here you are, sir," Tinker whispered, gently forcing a door inwards. "The lock has been cut away."
"Good for you, my lad," the detective answered; and slipped off his boots. "Hang on to Pedro, and keep him quiet. How many men are there?"
"Three, sir."
"That's two for me, one for the dog, and you as reserve," Sexton Blake whispered calmly.
Moving very cautiously in the pitchy darkness, the three reached a flight of stairs and ascended them, to find themselves in a square hall. Fumbling round, Sexton Blake discovered the staircase, and promptly led the way up it.
Pedro growled deep down in his chest, and the detective gripped him for a second by the throat. The great brute understood, and did not make another sound. To a broad landing the three ascended, then sounds reached them which told them that they were near to their quarry. Sexton Blake moved farther in advance now, stopping before a door beneath which a ray of light was creeping. Gently he forced on the woodwork, and the door, creaking badly, opened inwards.
Three men, bootless, dressed in dark clothes, without a glimmer of white or colour about them, leapt to their feet in front of a massive safe. One edged towards the electric-light switch; but Blake was there first. He was calm outwardly, but he was thinking rapidly what he should do. The burglars decided it for him by making a rush for the door.
Straight through the doorway they went, Pedro close at their heels, Sexton Blake and Tinker not very far behind. Then it was that the leading burglar in his terror made a mistake. Instead of turning to the right, which would have taken him the way he had come, he turned to the left, his mates followings him; and by the time that they had realised their mistake it was too late for them to go back, and they could do nothing but rush up the stairs leading to the top of the house.
After them went Pedro, so close that he snapped at their heels, and the burglars almost flew in their terror of the animal.
On to another passage they all dashed, and through a doorway opposite. As they passed through it, an elderly man, poker in hand, stepped from a doorway, touched a knob, and the passage was flooded with light.
With a cry of triumph Sexton Blake leapt past Pedro, hurled him back from the door, closed it, and locked it, the key luckily being on the outside.
The light had revealed the fact that the burglars had bolted into the bath-room, the solitary window of which was far too small to admit of the passage of a man's body.
"What does this mean?" the old gentleman demanded fiercely, brandishing the poker threateningly.
"Merely that three burglars were trying to break into your safe, having succeeded in entering the house, my dear sir," sexton Blake explained blandly, "and that we were just in time to prevent them succeeding. They have no way of escape from that room, I suppose?"
"None whatever!"
"Good! I will send for help," Sexton Blake said, with decision. And, tearing a leaf from his notebook, he scrawled a message on it.
"Take that at once to the Mainly Street station, Tinker," he whispered to the boy; "then make yourself scarce, or our friend Spearing may smell a rat. Be quick! Our burglar friends are getting nasty! "
Thrusting the note into his pocket, Tinker dashed off, and Sexton Blake turned to the door of the bath-room, against which the burglars were hurling themselves.
"I shoot the first man who comes out," he cried sternly, though he had not a firearm about him, "and the dog will finish the rest!"
The burglars cooled down considerably, and Sexton Blake turned again to the old gentleman, who was obviously the owner of the house.
"You are probably wondering who I am, sir," he said quietly. "so I had better explain. I am a member of the local police force, and was lucky enough to see a light burning at this unusual hour, and——"
"And," the old man cried enthusiastically, snatching at Sexton Blake's hand and wringing it warmly, "you came in and saved me! You saved, let me tell you, more than you imagine. I am a diamond merchant by profession, and there were some thousands of pounds' worth of stones in that safe! Believe me, I am ready to do anything for you that——"
"It was nothing more than my duty, sir," Sexton Blake interrupted quickly, "and I want no reward. One favour you can do me, however."
"And that is?" asked the old gentleman eagerly.
"That you will say that that dog is yours—and, in fact, look after him for a short time. I have excellent reasons for asking you to do so."
The old gentleman looked distinctly doubtful, for Pedro was not a particularly amiable-looking dog.
"He's—he's safe, I suppose?" he ventured.
"Quite!"
. Then I'll keep him for you, though I don't understand why——"
"I will explain that to you when I claim him," Sexton Blake said quietly. "In the meantime—thank you!"
An hour passed, during which time, save for the shifting about of the burglars in the bath-room, there was not a sound. At the end of that time there was a thundering knock on the front door, and a frightened servant, who had been cowering in the hall, admitted Sergeant Lightning and a posse of constables.
A few minutes later the three burglars had been secured, Crimpy Snark was fetched from the garden, and the whole party set off for the police-station, only one constable being left in charge of the house—by special request of the owner.
The police-station was entered in something like triumph, and Sexton Blake and Sergeant Lightning went straight to their chief's office. Lightning was looking particularly pleased with himself.
"Got 'em all, sir," he announced; "four desperate ruffians —caught in the act."
"Is that so, Brown?" Inspector Smeeth asked sharply, a sparkle in his eyes, for the capture of this gang by his men would mean a feather in his cap.
"The sergeant is right, sir," Sexton Blake agreed modestly; "we captured them."
"Brown, my boy," Sergeant Lightning wheezed, as he left the room in company with Sexton Blake, "you're a good 'un of the right sort 'We' captured them! Ha, ha!"
Sergeant Lightning's Home—The Sergeant Has an
Idea—Working It Out—The Coiner's Shop—The Coup.
SEXTON BLAKE knocked at the door of a small, trimly-kept house in a side-street situated not far from the police-station, and was at once admitted by a small and very tubby boy. This was Master Bobby Lightning, eldest son of the sergeant of that name. In fact, save that he was rather small, and had not, at present, grown whiskers, he might have been the worthy sergeant himself.
"Dad's in," the boy wheezed, "and he says as will you please come right in?"
Sexton Blake followed his youthful guide down the passage. The sergeant had rather mysteriously asked him to come and have tea with the family, and the great occasion had arrived.
Outside the door of the sitting-room Bobby Lightning paused and looked up at the detective.
"Ain't you the hero of the 'darin' capture o' burglars'?" he asked. "I read about it in the paper. Dad let's me read 'em—says it opens the mind." The small boy grinned across his face. "Are you the hero?"
"I helped get them," Sexton Blake agreed, with a smile; and followed the boy into the room.
Sergeant Lightning was reclining in an easy-chair, his uniform dangling from the wall behind him, helmet topping it. It really looked as if the worthy sergeant had hanged himself, and that his twin-brother was sitting below him. His limbs were garbed in a tight-fitting suit of regulation blue, which had obviously been put on in honour of his guest, a thick silver chain dangled from his expansive waistcoat, and a cigar, adorned by a broad band, was between his fingers.
"Welcome to my 'umble 'ome, Brown!" he said cordially, rising with some difficulty, for the blue suit was very tight, and looking proudly round the room. "The 'ome of a sergeant in the force. May you soon have ore o' your own."
'All paid for, as dad says, an' we don't owe nothin'— 'cept the gas bill!" Bobby Lightning wheezed.
The sergeant's face. beamed with paternal pride, as he handed his guest one of the cigars with the gaudy band.
"Takes after me, don't he?" he gurgled, "'cept that he's brighter than 'is poor father. Don't reckon as how I'll put him in the force, though. I soar 'igher for my off-spring—something in the 'am an' beef line ought to suit him if we can manage to start 'im."
Sexton Blake struggled manfully with the cigar, but he was none the less glad when Mrs. Lightning—a tall, very straight-backed woman, who would have made a better-looking policeman than her husband—entered with the tea. Sexton Blake promptly made a movement to throw the remainder of his cigar into the grate, but the sergeant captured it, and laid it tenderly in an ash-tray.
"Do for after tea, old man," he wheezed. "Them's real good smokes. Don't reckon as 'ow you can get a cigar good at less than seven a bob—do you?"
"No," Sexton Blake agreed, with conviction.
Throughout tea, to which he did ample justice, Sergeant Lightning hinted darkly at some mysterious event which was to take place soon; but it was not until Mrs. Lightning had departed to wash up the tea-things, and Bobby had been sent out to play—an old helmet of his father's perched on his head—that he became more explicit.
"The fact is, Brown," he announced solemnly, "that I'm worried. No, I don't look it, but that's my misfortune, and not yours, as the poet says."
Sergeant Lightning paused and eyed his visitor steadily, and Sexton Blake really began to wonder what was coming next. He had taken a real liking to the sergeant, and was more than willing to help him if it were possible.
"Well," he queried, "what's wrong, sergeant?"
Sergeant Lighting raised a fat hand protestingly.
"Call me Lightning," he said, "we ain't on dooty now, an' this 'ere little business—if we undertakes to do it—puts us on an equality, so to speak."
With great care Sergeant Lightning fished a small box out of his waistcoat pocket, opened it, and produced something wrapped in tissue-paper. From the paper he brought a florin and a shilling, and laid them tenderly upon the table as if afraid of bruising them.
Sexton Blake was at a loss to understand for a moment, then he put out his hand and passed the tips of his fingers very gently over the surface of the coins. °
"Bad?" he suggested.
"Fair duds," Sergeant Lightning agreed, a broad grin spreading over his face, 'and you an' me, Brown, by the aid o' them coins, is goin' to do great things."
The sergeant lit a fresh cigar; Sexton Blake had one of his own; then the former leant forward, his elbows resting on the table.
"Them coins was made in this district, my lad," he wheezed, in a hoarse whisper.
"Then why didn't you give information at the station?" Sergeant Lightning winked knowingly, and knocked the feathery ash from his cigar.
"No fear, my lad," he answered, with determination; "that would have meant as someone else stepped in an' took the credit. Not as 'ow they couldn't have it an' welcome, but they'd pinch the cash bonus, too. That's where I want to come l lookin' forrard as I does to the time when Bobby shall be somethin' in the 'am and beef line."
"Well," Sexton Blake said sharply, "what do you want me to do?"
"Just this," Sergeant Lightning explained, rising to his feet and excitedly sliding up and down the floor. "Both o' us 'as got three days off. We'll use 'em. I supplies the information, you supplies the—er—acumen, an' between us we settles this little coiners' den."
Sexton Blake was all attention now. Already he had done great things in the district, but he was anxious to do still more, so as to the more completely stagger Spearing when the time came for him to declare himself.
"What information have you?" he demanded.
"Only two facts, my lad," Sergeant Lightning answered, "but them two is A1.
"In the first place, both them coins came from the same shop—given in change. Secondly, that there shop sells things so surprising cheap that it's a wonder how they makes a profit."
A glimmer of understanding sprang into Sexton Blake's eyes as he realised the importance of the sergeant's last remark.
"You're no fool, Lightning," he said quickly. "Where is this shop?"
"Edmint Road, provision merchant, name of Smithers," the sergeant answered, consulting his bulky official notebook.
Sexton Blake made a note of the name and address, took up his hat, and moved towards the door.
"You ain't goin', Brown?" the sergeant cried in surprise. "I was a-goin' to let Bobby recite the 'Coastguard ' to yer. Jest wait a bit, an' I'll see if he's swallered his tea long enough ter let his voice out—"
"No, not now," Sexton Blake protested. "It's only three, and, really, from what you tell me, I should think it possible that we might clear this little business up in a couple of hours. Will you be ready to come if I send for you? You must be in at the finish, or you'll lose the credit of the capture, if we make one."
"Two hours?" Sergeant Lightning gasped, letting his cigar fall from his fingers.
"Two hours," Sexton Blake echoed; and left the room and the house before the astounded sergeant could say more.
As he strolled along, going in the direction of the Edmint Road, Sexton Blake's brain was not idle. He had few enough facts to work upon, but they were sufficient to tell him that the owners of the shop had passed the spurious coins deliberately. That they were actually made on the premises was uncertain, but Sexton Blake decided it was likely.
Reaching the Edmint Road, a pretty busy side-street, Sexton Blake had no difficulty in finding the provision shop. It was a quiet-looking place, making no particular display, save for the placard right across the window:
"We are the Cheapest on Earth"
Without the slightest hesitation, Sexton Blake entered the shop. He found that it possessed only one counter, behind which a ferrety-faced man was busy weighing out sugar. He looked up quickly as the detective entered, and nodded civilly.
"What can I do for you?" he asked.
Taking a piece of paper from his pocket—the note of the address of the shop—Sexton Blake read from an imaginary list, giving an order which amounted to about eight shillings.
The things were quickly tied up for him, then he played his trump card.
"Could you," he said quietly, with the natural embarrassment of a man asking a favour, "change a five-pound note for me?"
In the ordinary way the owner of so small a shop would have refused pointblank, but the owner of this one did not do so. He jerked out the till, and ran his fingers rather eagerly through the coins.
"I should have liked it in silver," Sexton Blake added; and, leaning a trifle forward, managed to see that there were two receptacles for silver in the till. One was almost full, the other held no more than a couple of pounds. It was in the latter till that the owner of the shop had his hand.
"I am very sorry, sir," he said, "but I have only about two pounds in silver, but if you will wait a few minutes I will send to the bank."
"If it is not too much trouble, I shall be obliged," Sexton Blake answered. He knew that he was on the right scent; there was considerably more than five pounds in silver in one of the tills, yet the shopkeeper had said that he would have to send to the bank for more.
A short, thin woman, evidently the wife of Smithers, took the five-pound note and left the shop. Inside five minutes she was back, carrying a paper bag of the kind used in banks in her hand. Her husband promptly took eight shillings from it, dropped them into the side of the till where there was the smaller amount of silver, then handed the bag over to Sexton Blake.
Carrying his purchases with him, the detective left the shop, feeling distinctly mystified. He had been given change that had come straight from the bank, so it was bound to be good. And yet there were the two tills, and——
Sexton Blake had reached the corner of the street, and, glancing to his right, he caught sight of a bank. He took the bag of change from his pocket, and saw that the name of the bank was upon it. At the same time he remembered that in the shop had been a placard reading " Branch establishment at Lower Love Lane."
In a moment Sexton Blake's mind was made up, and he entered the bank. The cashier behind the nearest desk looked up inquiringly.
"Mr. Smithers will be very much obliged if you can change a fiver for him," the detective said quietly, "and is sorry to trouble you a second time."
"No trouble," the cashier answered politely, handing over four sovereigns and two half-sovereigns, "but we haven't changed anything for him to-day."
"Thank you. My mistake, I expect," Sexton Blake said; and left the bank.
The detective was distinctly pleased with himself. The capture of the coiners would be a small affair to a man who had held the affairs of nations in his hands, but it nevertheless pleased him that he had succeeded so soon. He knew now, as well as if he had proved it, that the headquarters of the coiners was the shop in Lower Love Lane. It was from there that the change had been fetched by the woman, for the shop was only just round the corner, in a street where it was not likely to attract much trade or notice.
There was nothing to be done now but to arrange the raiding of the two shops, so Sexton Blake returned to Sergeant Lightning's house, much to that worthy's amazement, for he had regarded the two hours' business as merely a boast. Here Sexton Blake examined the coins and tested them, finding, as he had expected, that they were remarkably fine counterfeits.
Taking the sergeant with him, he went straight to the Mainly Street station and reported himself to Inspector Smeeth.
"Thought you were off duty, Brown?" the inspector said sharply; "and you, too, sergeant?"
"Off dooty, sir, but never unwillin' to do it," Sergeant Lightning answered, with dignity.
In as few words as possible, and making Sergeant Lightning's part of the business as important as he could, Sexton Blake explained the affair. Inspector Smeeth looked distinctly staggered. His new constable had surprised him more than once during the few weeks that he had been at the station, but this last business fairly threw all his other exploits into the shade.
"You are sure of this, Brown?" he demanded. "The raiding of two shops without warrants is a serious matter."
Sexton Blake drew the bag of change from his pocket, and emptied the coins out on to the inspector's desk.
"Test them, sir," he said quietly.
Inspector Smeeth had the necessary apparatus in the office, and by the time he had finished the test there was no doubt left in his mind. Every one of the coins were spurious.
No time was lost now, and a dozen men who were in the station were martialled under the inspector. Five minutes later both the shop in Edmint Street and Lower Love Lane had been surrounded by the men, all of whom were in plain clothes. Sergeant Lightning and his men were attending to the Edmint Street establishment, while Inspector Smeeth, Sexton Blake, and the rest went to the supposed headquarters in Lower Love Lane.
"You shall take the lead, Brown," Smeeth said good-naturedly, as soon as his men had been stationed. "Get the darbies on the man behind the counter, and try and stop him calling out."
"Very good, sir. I had better go in alone," Sexton Blake answered; "come in when I whistle."
Entering the shop, Sexton Blake went straight over to the counter, behind which a big man was waiting for customers, for there were, luckily, none in the shop.
"Pound of sugar," Sexton Blake said.
The man reached the article from a shelf behind him, and at the same moment Sexton Blake placed a coin on the counter. The result was what he expected. The shopman placed the packet on the counter with his left hand, and at the same time put out his right to pick up the coin.
There was a quick movement on the part of Sexton Blake, the click of handcuffs, and the shopman, handcuffed and gripped by the throat, found himself dragged forward over his counter. Then Sexton Blake gave the signal, the rest of the police entered, and he handed over his prisoner to them.
A search of the premises proved Sexton Blake to be correct, for in a back room two men were surprised at their work— coining; and a large amount of spurious silver, and a complete outfit for the manufacture of it, were seized,
Very little later the coiners were safely in the cells, and Smeeth, looking very pleased with himself, Sergeant Lightning —who had successfully raided the other shop—and Sexton Blake, stood in the inspector's office. "Brown," the latter said, "we are proud of you. This will mean a reward, and I only hope that you won't be sneaked away to the Yard just yet."
"If there is a reward it belongs to Sergeant Lightning," Sexton Blake answered quietly, "for his was the information. Do you want me any more, sir?"
"Thank you; no."
"Come on then, sergeant," Sexton Blake said, with a smile, turning to Lightning, "I'm going back with you to hear Bobby recite."
"Brown," Sergeant Lightning wheezed, as he skated down the street beside his friend, "you and me ought to have a shot at finding this Sexton Blake. What with your—er—acumen, an' my experience, we ought to be a cert for it. What d'you think?"
"We'd find him if we tried, old man," Sexton Blake answered calmly, but not without a smile.
Constable Brown in Demand— Off to the Races—
Tinker to Help—A Big Bag—No More Room.
"BROWN," Inspector Smeeth said pleasantly, for at the new constable had brought great honour upon the Mainly Street station, "you will be exempt from duty to-day."
"And why, sir?" Sexton Blake queried.
"I have received a communication from Mr. Spearing, of the Yard, you know," the inspector explained, "telling me how many of my men will be needed at Epsom tomorrow. He specially asks that you shall be sent, in plain clothes."
"And my duties, sir?"
Inspector Smeeth smiled, and glanced through the letter that he had received from Mr. Spearing.
"The fact is, Brown," he said, "certain people in high places, who have an idea that they are the sole ones who support the police, are anxious that the evils of the racecourse shall be suppressed; the three-card trick, thimble-rigging, the confidence-trick, and petty welshing and pocket-picking."
"Large order, sir," Sexton Blake suggested, with a smile, for he saw himself having a gay time, "I may go disguised, of course?"
"Anything you like, my boy," Smeeth agreed genially, "only keep up your reputation and ours."
When Sexton Blake left the police-station there was a quiet smile of content on his lips. Already he had done very well in his new duties, attracting the attention of the authorities in a few weeks, and even of Mr. Spearing himself. Sexton Blake smiled still more as he thought of Spearing looking for him, and never dreaming that he was the identical Constable Brown who was causing something of a sensation in official circles. But on the morrow, Constable Brown told himself, he would outshine all his previous achievements.
Taking a cab, then a tram, and after that a bus, so as to leave no track behind him, Sexton Blake reached the East End of London, and from there sent a wire to Tinker. It was short, and ran as follows:
"BE SELLING RACECARDS TATTENHAM CORNER STATION TOMORROW."
Sexton Blake did not sign the wire, knowing that Tinker would understand perfectly well from whom it came.
His business for the day done, Sexton Blake changed into regulation mufti, not forgetting the marching boots, made his way up West, dined at a small but comfortable restaurant, and finished up at a music-hall,
On the following morning Sexton Blake rose early, and went out to buy a second-hand suit of clothes. It was a lightish-brown suit, with a tinge of red in it, and with the short tails and large pockets apparently so beloved of countrymen. Garbed in this, with his false moustache drooping and straggling, and a hat much too small for him, Sexton Blake looked innocent almost to the verge of foolishness. A gold watch-chain with a heavy seal was sufficient to make him look prosperous.
Shortly after eleven Sexton Blake entered one of the large London stations, and purchased a ticket to Tattenham Corner. There was a clear ten minutes before the train was timed to leave, so Sexton Blake strolled across to the refreshment-room, where a number of seedy, very horsey-looking men were drinking. Some of these individuals were outspokenly seedy, making no attempt to hide the fact, but there were others who boasted collars and brass watch-chains, with an imitation diamond ring here and there. The latter class was the more dangerous, and Sexton Blake recognised more than one sharp amongst them.
Going up to the bar, Sexton Blake ordered a drink, and pulled out a heavy purse. More than one of the men around eyed him sharply, nudging each other. Having finished his drink, the detective strolled on to the platform, and entered an empty first-class smoker.
He was not alone for long. Just as the train was about to leave the station three men, all of whom had been near to the detective in the bar, entered. One seated himself beside Sexton Blake, another in the corner opposite, and the third at the farther end of the carriage.
This particular train was not to make a stop until Tattenham Corner was reached, so that cardsharpers and the like would have plenty of time to operate before their destination was reached.
Sexton Blake knew perfectly well that his three travelling companions had designs upon his money, and chuckled silently. He only hoped that they would not commence operations too soon, as that would mean playing them until the station was in sight. In any case it would be a pretty dangerous business, for it would be three to one.
Half an hour went by, during which the three men read their papers like ordinary travellers, but at the end of that time the fun commenced. The man opposite Blake spread his paper across his knees, produced a pack of cards, selected three, a knave and two eights, and began to shuffle them backwards and forwards on the paper.
Feigning surprise, as if not understanding what the man was doing, Sexton Blake stared with all his might. The man beside him winked knowingly at his friend in the far corner. Not that he acknowledged him as a friend, in fact, they behaved like total strangers.
"Now then, my bonny bucks," the man with the cards began, talking very rapidly, and only stopping here and there for breath, "we are all bound for the races to spot the winners, and show ourselves what we can do when we—never despair, you're bound to spot 'em if you only keep on and the jockey don't fall off, which is—logical and common-sense—who'll spot the little joker. I'll back myself against the Jockey Club, Turf Club, Primrose League, or any other, and all others—who'll spot the little joker? One, two, three, and which is it?"
The cardsharper threw the three cards down, and looked round inquiringly. The man in the far corner promptly produced a sovereign.
"Take you for a sovereign," he said sharply.
"Done!" the sharper exclaimed, banging a sovereign of rather pale yellow appearance, down upon the paper.
Sexton Blake noticed the colour of the sovereign, and chuckled. He would be able to have the men for being in possession of counterfeit coin.
"Which card?" the sharper demanded.
"Off-side," the other man answered readily.
The sharper turned up the card, revealing the knave, and tossed his sovereign over to the other man. The loser did not seem to be particularly depressed, but at once set to work to shuffle the cards again.
"Beat by a neck," he cried; "but the second race is our race, Who'll back 'emselves against the field, and spot—the little joker?"
The man paused, and looked inquiringly at Sexton Blake, who was still staring in what seemed to be open-mouthed astonishment.
"Try your luck, me boy?" the sharper suggested.
"Do I get a whole sovereign if I show you the card?" Sexton Blake asked innocently.
"Many as you like," the sharper answered, winking behind his hand at the man opposite.
"Easy way o' making money," Sexton Blake said wonderingly. "Does it pay you?"
"Pay me, lor' love you, no!" the sharper explained, fairly beaming now. "But I'm a sport, I am, with a bit o' money to burn. Here you are, name your card!"
With great care Sexton Blake extracted a sovereign from his purse as the sharper shuffled the cards, and it was at once covered.
"Spot the joker?" the sharper chortled.
"That be it," Sexton Blake said quickly, pointing at the middle card.
It was it, and the sharper handed over a yellow sovereign without a murmur. Sexton Blake placed the coin in a pocket by itself, and a smile was on his lips. He knew from the feel of it that it was a counterfeit.
"Come on, old hoss, have another shy," the sharper said. "Make it a fiver—I like losing."
"Do I get five pounds if I win?" Sexton Blake asked.
"Make it ten, old buck!" the sharper chortled.
Sexton Blake produced ten sovereigns and laid them down, the sharper producing the same number. The cards were shuffled, and Sexton Blake pointed to the one to the left. It was not the picture-card, but one of the eights, and the sharper, still grinning, pocketed the twenty sovereigns ten of which, at least, were genuine.
Glancing out of the window, Sexton Blake saw that the train was rapidly approaching Tattenham Corner station, and got ready for action. All the men in the compartment were powerful-looking, but that did not deter him.
Looking mightily pleased with himself now, the sharper shuffled the cards again.
"Make it a tenner and get yer own back, old sport!" he suggested, whacking ten sovereigns down on the paper, and once more fingering the cards.
Sexton Blake put his hand to his breast-pocket, as if to take out a pocket-book; then his hands dropped sharply, there was a metallic click, and the cardsharper's wrists were manacled together.
Three men, including the handcuffed one, leapt to their feet, but, quick though they were, Sexton Blake was quicker, and had mounted on to the seat of the carriage. He stooped sharply, gripped the handcuffed man under the arms, and fairly flung him at the other two, the whole three falling with a crash to the floor of the carriage.
Down on the top of them sprang Sexton Blake, and, during the next minute the interior of that carriage might have been a miniature battlefield. The three sharps struck out wildly, frequently hitting each other, while Sexton Blake, with a well-timed blow here and there, kept them busy.
With a screech of brakes the train drew up at the station, and the detective, leaping over the struggling men, flung open the door and reached the platform. Luckily for him, half a dozen constables were just alighting from the next carriage, and at a sign from Sexton Blake they were quickly on the scene, and the three men were secured.
A few words explained matters, and the three sharps, Sexton Blake's first capture for the day, started off on their walk down the course to the police-station.
So quickly had everything been done that it had attracted very little attention, and no one took any particular notice of the countrified-looking man, as he strolled out of the station, and stood looking carelessly round. He had hardly been there a minute before a small voice piped:
"C'rect card, mister?."
Tinker had not failed, and there he was, in a disreputable old suit, his face and hands dirty, a batch of racecards in his hands. A few yards away stood Pedro, and at sight of the detective he came ambling up. One word, however, kept him from showing that he recognised his master.
Buying a card, and fumbling in his pockets to find the right money, Sexton Blake gave his instructions.
"I shall be opposite the stands, Tinker," he said, in a low voice—" near the number-board. You have to keep an eye open for pickpockets or confidence-trick men. Come to me the moment you find one, and we'll make a good bag today. Best keep Pedro with you."
"Right you are, sir! " the boy answered; and went shuffling off, crying the cards as he went.
Strolling leisurely down the course, Sexton Blake reached the part opposite the stands about half an hour before the first race. It was an important day, and thousands had come in from London and the surrounding districts to witness the racing. Through the crowds the detective moved quietly, apparently wondering at all that he saw, in reality looking out for the sharps who are the curse of racing. He meant to cause a bit of sensation by the number of arrests, and he had little fear that he would fail.
Sexton Blake felt a hand pulling at his heavy chain as he forced his way through the crowd, but he kept on without taking any notice, for a swift glance downwards showed him that the hand was no longer there.
There it was again, jerking at his chain, which he had taken the precaution of pinning into his pocket. Quick as lightning the detective's right hand dropped, and his fingers gripped a sinewy wrist. The arm beyond the wrist tugged harder than the fingers had at the chain, but it was powerless to free itself.
Already a crowd was forming—the last thing that Sexton Blake desired; so, thrusting the pickpocket before him, he forced his way to where a policeman was standing, and handed his capture over.
"Pickpocket," he said shortly. "I'm Brown, of the Mainly Street station."
Leaving the constable in uniform to take the man away, Sexton Blake strolled on. The first race was run, but without anything more happening, save that a second man had a try for the detective's watch, only to be given in charge as the first had been.
Sexton Blake's bag now amounted to five, but he was not content.
Suddenly Tinker emerged from the crowd, and touched Sexton Blake on the arm.
"Man pretending to have a fit over here, sir," he whispered. "Don't twig his game."
Forcing his way through the crowd, not without some difficulty, Sexton Blake followed Tinker to where a fair-sized crowd had collected. Through this he edged, until he stood in the inmost line.
A seedily-dressed man, white of face, wild of eye, was flinging himself about on the turf, gnashing his teeth, yelling, and striking and grabbing with his hands. A dozen or so men, meaning well, were trying to soothe him, and hold him down, but they failed to get a grip on him.
For a moment even Sexton Blake failed to see what game the man was playing, though he could see, as Tinker had seen, that the man was shamming. Then something glimmered in the man's hand for a second and was gone.
Darting forward, Sexton Blake ducked, avoided one of the man's swinging arms, caught him round the waist, and sat him with a whack upon the ground.
A few of the crowd yelled with delight, the rest hissed and yelled "Shame!" The victim himself recovered. with surprising suddenness from his fit, and glared at Sexton Blake, at the same time making an effort to rub the part upon which he had been forced to sit so heavily.
"Who the blazes are you?" he burst out. Then remembered that he was in a fit, and made a frantic effort to shake himself free and continue his antics. But Sexton Blake, still holding him fast, jerked him to his feet, and shook him as a terrier shakes a rat.
"Anyone lost anything?" he asked sharply.
There was something very commanding in the voice of the sleepy-looking yokel, and men who had helped to try and restrain the suffering man felt for watches, pins, or purses.
"My pin's gone!" one man yelled frantically. forty quid, and——"
"Me watch has been pinched!" another yelled.
And, in all, a dozen men cried out that they had been robbed.
By a quick movement Sexton Blake swung the man to the ground again, then gripped him by the ankles and held him upside-down. Out of the man's loose pockets there at once dropped three pins, seven watches, and two purses, all of which were promptly claimed by members of the crowd.
A minute or so later the gentleman who had had the fit was being marched, none too tenderly, to the police-station on the course.
Sexton Blake's bag now numbered six.
During the next hour or 80 things were very slack, and Sexton Blake wandered about. Tinker, with Pedro in tow, keeping him in sight. He was attracted at last, however, by the brazen voice of a bookmaker, who was yelling much longer odds than any of the other men.
Sexton Blake strolled past the man's stand, and saw that he was offering prices about twice as liberal as that of any other man on the course. That settled the detective, and, leaning up against a post, he awaited developments. He saw a good many men bet with this bookmaker.
A bell clanged!
"They're off!" the crowd yelled.
Sexton Blake edged over to the bookmaker, put half a sovereign on the longest-priced horse, then sat down on a box near the man's feet. From his pocket he drew a slender length of wire, with a hook at each end, and, without the bookmaker feeling it, he drove one of the hooks through the end of his left trouser-lee. The other hook was wedged into @ pole driven into the ground. Then Sexton Blake rose and strolled away a few yards.
Past the post flashed the horses, and a few seconds later the numbers went up into the frames.
Crash!
Knowing what he would see, Sexton Blake turned sharply. The booky had started to make a bolt for it, as the detective had foreseen, the wire had tripped him, and he had come down with a run, bringing his stand down on top of him. Before he could rise Sexton Blake was on top of him, seated comfortably on his chest, and at the same time beckoning a policeman, who had turned at the sound of the crash.
"See that he shells out," Sexton Blake ordered, "and if he hasn't got the money, lock him up for obtaining money under false pretences. I'm Brown, of Mainly Street."
Scarcely had Sexton Blake settled this little matter when a volley of yells and curses attracted his attention. Fully a hundred men and boys were springing for all they were worth after a figure who had already obtained a lead of a good two hundred yards over the downs.
"Welsher!" the crowd yelled. "Lynch him!"
Sexton Blake turned sharply, and saw that Tinker and Pedro were beside him. He called the dog, and with the animal at his heels, started full pelt after the retreating bookmaker. By taking a short cut he outdistanced most of the pursuers, then he proved that he had not trained Pedro for nothing.
"On him! Fetch him!" he panted, pointing away towards the running man.
And the dog, like an arrow released from a bow, leapt past the running men and made straight after his quarry.
"Gentlemen," Sexton Blake panted, "I don t think you need trouble to run."
He was about right. Inside five minutes Pedro had come up with the fugitive, seized him by the slack of his trousers, and fairly yanked him to the ground Then he stood over him and growled, and the bookmaker, preferring infuriated men to the dog, lay still.
Some of his debts were paid, then, in charge of a nice, kind policeman, he was led away to swell Sexton Blake's bag.
During the rest of the afternoon the detective had a slack time, and, save for collaring two men who tried to snatch his tempting-looking chain, he did nothing.
At the end of the race-meeting he strolled over to the police-station on the course, where the prisoners were being martialled ready to be conveyed in the police-van to the station in the town.
"Can't come in, sir," the constable at the door said civilly.
"But I'm Constable Brown," Sexton Blake objected.
The policeman stood aside in a hurry, and touched his helmet as he would have done to a superior officer.
"I reckon you.go in, sir," he said; "that lot's pretty nearly all yours."
A Day Off—At the Crystal Palace—The Champion Hurt—For
the Honour of the Station—An Awkward Moment—All's Well.
"LOOK here, Brown, old man," said Sergeant Lightning, skating up to Sexton Blake as he was hurrying along to the station to report himself for duty, "d'you 'appen ter know what to-day is?"
"Thursday," Sexton Blake answered promptly, "the fifteenth of -——"
"Oh, chuck it, and don't make me tired!" Sergeant Lightning objected; and for the first time Sexton Blake noticed that the officer was garbed in his state costume of blue serge.
"Hallo, what's the game?" Sexton Blake queried. "Bobby going into the ham-and-beef shop, or——"
"To-day," Sergeant Lightning interrupted haughtily, "is the great day for the force."
"Been promoted?"
"To-day," Sergeant Lightning continued doggedly, taking no notice of the remark, "is the Police Fete at the Crystal Palace. Sports, do what you like, and fireworks."
"I suppose you are going," Sexton Blake said, with a show of interest.
"I am, likewise the missus and Bobby," Sergeant Lightning agreed. "It's these here entertainments, refined yet exhilaratin', what opens the buddin' mind o' youth until it—er—it—er opens."
There was a short pause, then Sergeant Lightning took Sexton Blake by the arm, easing his walk down a trifle, for the tightness of the blue suit made its wearer hot.
"And why," be said, "d'you think I'm goin' to the station though I'm off dooty?"
"Couldn't say, I'm sure," Sexton Blake answered.
"Because I'm goin' ter take you with me to the Palace," Sergeant Lightning chortled.
'But I'm on duty," Sexton Blake objected, though he would not have been sorry for the day off.
"Wait," Sergeant Lightning said meaningly; and led the way into the station. Five minutes later he announced joyfully to Sexton Blake that his leave had been granted, and bade him rush home and change into mufti as quickly as possible.
Less than an hour later, travelling fifteen in a third-class smoker, Sergeant Lightning, Mrs. Lightning, Bobby, and Sexton Blake were being rattled slowly away towards the Crystal Palace.
By the time that they arrived, which was not much after midday, the grounds were already dark with people, but, as Sergeant Lightning remarked:
"There ain't nothin' like a crowd fer openin' the mind, Bobby, an' don't you lose nothin', rememberin' that your poor old dad is doin' the exes. fer this."
After doing various sights, and really enjoying himself, for Sexton Blake was the type of man who could throw himself body and soul into anything, the whole party strolled down to the cycle-track, where the police sports were to be held, and Sergeant Lightning and Sexton Blake, as members of the force, passed through into the enclosure reserved for the police.
Sexton Blake was greeted cordially by all who knew him, for there was not a man who was jealous of his attainments. Constable Brown had succeeded, therefore the force had not failed, and its members were proud of Brown and of the force.
Event after event was decided, amid much excitement, for the police are good sportsmen, then Sergeant Lightning pointed to an item on the programme.
"Mile scratch race," he announced, next, That's our ticket, my lad."
"What do you mean?" Sexton Blake asked.
"That race has been held by a chap named Greening fer two years," the sergeant explained. "Comes from one o' the North London districts, but this year "—the sergeant chuckled loudly, and passed the palms of his hands up and down his legs softly—" this year it's a-goin' to be won by P.C. Fane, of the Mainly Street station."
"The tall, slight man?" Sexton Blake queried.
"The same, my lad," Sergeant Lightning gurgled joyfully, "an he can't lose. See 'im run! It makes me puff ter watch him."
Scarcely had the sergeant finished speaking, when Inspector Smeeth, who wore the rosette of a steward, came edging his way towards where Sexton Blake and his companion sat. There was a worried, almost angry, look on the inspector's face,
"Lightning," he said sharply, "have you seen young Druce anywhere?"
"No, six,", the sergeant answered promptly; "he's off duty, but I don't think he was coming here. Bit sick, sir, that Fane was to run for the station instead of him."
"Hang his conceit," Smeeth growled. "Greening'll get the race again."
Sergeant Lightning's face positively turned white, for he was immensely proud of his profession, and particularly of his comrades of the Mainly Street station.
"What d'you mean, sir?" he gasped. He had had no doubt that Fane would win the race, and this blow to his hopes was a nasty one.
"Fane had slipped getting out of the train, and sprained his right ankle; can't walk, much less run," Smeeth snapped. "I did hope that we should get the cup this year, but now we sha'n't even be able to make a bid for it."
Sexton Blake had been listening intently, and was feeling sorry that Inspector Smeeth should be so disappointed. He had taken a liking to Smeeth and the other men at the station, and he could see now how keenly they had set their hearts on winning this cup, if he could judge by the aspect of Sergeant Lightning and the inspector.
"Could another man from our station be entered even now?" he asked quietly. The inspector's face was positively savage as he turned it towards Sexton Blake. "Don't ask ridiculous questions, man," he growled, "and—"
"Could another man run, sir?" Sexton Blake persisted, rising to his feet and throwing away the end of his cigar.
Then Smeeth saw what the man was driving at, and stared at him in amazement. He had begun to get used to the new constable's varied attainments, but to expect him to run a mile against good men, when, apparently, he had not trained at all, was asking too much.
"But you can't do it, man!" he protested,
"May I try, sir? Sexton Blake insisted quietly. "You may as well run me sooner than let the station go unrepresented. I expect I can borrow shoes and running-gear."
For a moment more Inspector Smeeth hesitated, then his face cleared and he patted Sexton Blake on the shoulder.
"If you bring this off, my lad," he said earnestly, "I'll be prouder of you than all your captures have made me, and that's saying a good deal."
"And I'll—I'll "—Sergeant Lightning, his face returned to its normal red hue, searched round in his mind—" I'll name my second offspring after you."
"Come on, Brown," Smeeth said quickly, "you'll only just have time to get ready."
Although Sexton Blake had offered to run with a very confident manner he was really none too sure of his powers. A few years back he knew, and acknowledged it without conceit, that few men in England could have equalled him at any distance from a mile to five miles. Since then, however, he had done very little running. This would not have affected his pace, that he was sure of, but he wondered whether his condition, good though it was, would be equal to that of men who had been in special training for months. Well, he would chance it.
No difficulty was experienced in fitting Sexton Blake out, and the feel of the spiked-shoes under his feet, and the air against his bare arms, made him feel as if he were fit to race for a kingdom. Sergeant Lightning and Smeeth stared at him in amazement. His muscle was not of the massive kind, but it was beautifully formed, and there was not a muscle of the whole body that was not equally well developed.
"You'll win, old man," Sergeant Lightning whispered, as he skated out of the dressing-room after Sexton Blake.
"I'll do my best," Sexton Blake answered quietly.
A notice had been placed on the number-board that Constable Brown, of the Mainly Street station, would run in place of Constable Fane, and something like a cheer went up as Sexton Blake stepped into the open. Already he was a famous man in the force, and there was not a man present who was not ready to give him his due.
Clang, clang, clang!
Ten men, all looking in the pink of condition, grouped themselves near the starting-post for the mile, and waited for the starter to call out their places. Sexton Blake had been drawn for the third berth from the inside, and now, as he took up his position, and felt the spikes of his shoes gripping the fine cinder of which the track was made, he felt that he really was going to win. His mind was made up, already he could see himself passing the post first, and that means a great deal in a race. Many a man has won on his determination rather than his skill. Sexton Blake possessed both, and it was only the want of special training for the event that was against him.
"Ready?"
Sexton Blake's body bent a trifle lower.
Crack!
Like one man the whole of the ten runners were off the mark save that Sexton Blake had already established a lead. This, however, he did not try to keep, allowing two men to pass him in the first hundred yards, then suited his pace to theirs, and ran steadily behind them. In the ordinary way, if he had been training, he would have gone for the lead and kept it, but he realised that it was safer for him now to husband his strength.
Past the winning-post the men ran in a cluster, and Sexton Blake, glancing sideways, caught sight of Spearing. He had seen his name on the programme as one of the committee, and he could not help smiling as he caught sight of him. Little did Spearing imagine that the finely built man, moving like a machine, who he pointed out to a brother official as the Constable Brown who was making such a mark in the force, was none other than Sexton Blake, the man for whom every detective in London was searching in his spare time. Five hundred pounds is a substantial reward, and well worth the winning.
The first lap was over, and Sexton Blake, with the two men still leading him, ran steadily past the post. The rest of the runners were already considerably tailed off, and it was quite plain that the race lay between Greening, the leading man, and holder of the cup, Thompson, the man who was running second, and Constable Brown.
Still in the same order the second lap was finished, not one of the three leading men showing any sign cf distress. Sexton Blake was feeling fit as a fiddle; he had got his second wind, and felt certain that he was going to win. He could have passed the leaders at any moment he chose.
Half-way round the third lap the men went, then something very unforeseen happened to Sexton Blake. The day was hot, and the perspiration stood out on his face. Suddenly he clapped his hand to his mouth, but it was too late. His false moustache, the gum heated by the perspiration, had dropped.
Quick as lightning, not daring to go on without it, for he knew that Spearing would be quick to recognise him, apart from the surprise it would cause everyone else, Sexton Blake fell, and rolled backwards to where the offending moustache lay.
A great groan went up from the crowd, for there was scarcely a member of the force present—Greening's friends being the exceptions—who would not have liked to see Constable Brown win the race.
Sexton Blake's hand closed over the moustache, and he thrust it on to his upper lip. He felt the gum grip, and hoped against hope that it would hold. He sprang to his feet, ready to continue the race; but Greening and Thompson had gained a lead of a clear twenty yards, and it seemed impossible that Sexton Blake could catch them.
A great cheer broke forth from the crowd as it saw that the plucky runner still meant to make a bid for the laurels.
Running for all he was worth now, and occasionally pressing his hand against his mouth to make sure that the moustache was all right, Sexton Blake went after the leaders; but at the finish of the third lap there was still a clear fifteen yards to be made up, while Greening and Thompson were still both running strongly.
Sexton Blake set his teeth as the bell clanged for the last lap. He forgot the chance of the moustache slipping again, and now only ran to win, remembering that it was for the honour of his friends in the force.
On he went, his spiked shoes sending back little showers of cinders, for he was travelling at very nearly a sprinting pace. Greening and Thompson had sprinted, too, and the crowd was yelling frantically.
Round into the straight Sexton Blake swung, the leader still five yards ahead of him; but he was not beaten yet. By a superb effort he raced level; but Greening, putting all his strength forward, was not to be passed; while Thompson hung on not a foot behind.
A silence fell over the crowd; the finish of the race was too exciting for cheering.
Only twenty yards more. In a few seconds the race would be lost or won for Sexton Blake.
Sexton Blake could see the thin tape ahead, hear the panting breath of the man running beside him, and his feet moved just a fraction faster, his chest showed ahead of the other man's, and he passed the post a winner by little more than a foot.
As Sexton Blake slipped into his coat, helped by the beaming Sergeant Lightning, Mr. Spearing came up and held out his hand.
"I congratulate you, Brown," he said cordially. "The finest race I have ever seen. Really, I think we shall have to have you at the Yard soon."
"Thank you, sir," Sexton Blake panted, hardly able to keep back a smile. "I hardly hoped I was experienced enough for that yet."
"Oh, that'll come in time—all in good time!" Mr. Spearing answered blandly.
And Sexton Blake, walking over to the dressing-room, wondered how hard Mr. Spearing would kick himself when he learnt that Constable Brown was the missing Sexton Blake.
News—The Reported Suicide—Sergeant Lightning
Makes a Discovery—Sexton Blake Gets to Work.
"BROWN," Inspector Smeeth remarked, as Sexton Blake reported himself for duty, "things are pretty slow in the neighbourhood just now."
"Good thing for the neighbourhood, sir," Sexton Blake answered quietly.
He had been attached to the Mainly Street station for a trifle over two months now, and in the time he had succeeded in practically clearing the district of its undesirable element.
So many arrests had he made that the others, fearing a like fate, had fled to safer fields and pastures new.
"In a way, yes," Inspector Smeeth agreed, a kindly smile on his face, for he had become quite attached to this quiet-mannered man who had done so much to give the station a good name; "but it gives you no further chance, and you are really wasted down here. I can't understand why they haven't had you at the Yard yet."
"Can do without me, I expect, sir," Sexton Blake answered, "and—"
An excited constable, his face hot and red, came hurrying into the office.
"What's wrong, Fane?" Smeeth asked quickly.
"Old gentleman found dead; shot through the head. No. 51 Great Tudno Street," the constable answered rapidly. "Left Smith in charge, and came in to report."
"Suicide or murder?" Smeeth queried sharply.
"Looks like suicide, sir; but not much time to examine. Revolver in right hand; only one chamber empty; bullet in brain. Must have happened some time last night."
Inspector Smeeth rose from his desk, and put on his cap.
"Brown," he said sharply, "you've got a suit of plain clothes here, just slip into them and come along. This may be a case of ordinary suicide, but it may not; and we've got to prove to the Yard that we know our business."
Inside a very few minutes Sexton Blake had changed, and was hurrying to the scene of the tragedy with Inspector Smeeth. Great Tudno Street was a thoroughfare of fine houses, most of them standing in their own grounds, and occupied by retired merchants, bankers, and others in prosperous circumstances. It seemed curious that a man of such a class should commit suicide.
Before leaving the station Inspector Smeeth had telephoned to the authorities at the Yard, and before long their detectives would have arrived.
No. 51 was reached, and Inspector Smeeth and Sexton Blake forced their way through the crowd. News of the tragedy had already spread like wild-fire through the district, and full a hundred men and women were clustered outside the gates of the broad drive.
The constable on duty at the door of the house drew aside to let the inspector and his companion pass in.
"Sergeant Lightning's minding the body, sir," he said.
In the halt of the house were two excited and terrified servants, an elderly lady, who proved later to be Mrs. Ludlow, the widow of the murdered man, and a man of some thirty years of age, a nephew of the name of Horace Shore.
It was the latter who came quietly forward. His face was white and grave, but it was hardly with signs of grief. Sexton Blake glanced at him sharply, and decided then and there that Mr. Horace Shore was scarcely a man to be trusted.
"You would like to go to the room where my poor uncle lies?" Shore suggested, in a slightly unsteady voice.
"Yes," Inspector Smeeth answered shortly.
Mr. Horace Shore led the way up a broad flight of stairs, across a passage, and halted before a door, over which Sergeant Lightning stood guard. The sergeant looked distinctly relieved as he caught sight of his colleagues.
"The corpse iS inside, sir," he wheezed huskily, "I ain't seen it,"
"Open the door, and lead the way in!" Smeeth said firmly.
With trembling hand, and pale face, Sergeant Lightning obeyed, and skated reluctantly and unwillingly into the chamber of death. The blinds were up, and the morning sun was shining in brightly, revealing every detail of the tragedy.
In the centre of the floor, his left hand gripping at the heavy carpet, lay a white-haired man of rather over sixty. His head was turned over to the left, and on the right temple showed a small round hole, the edges of which were blackened by the smoke of the revolver. The weapon was clenched in the dead man's right hand.
Inspector Smeeth and Sexton Blake knelt beside the body, the inspector making notes in his book, Sexton Blake merely scrutinising closely with his heavy-lidded eyes, After a brief inspection, most of which appeared to be turned to the wound in the temple, he rose and took Sergeant Lightning aside.
"Go into the garden, "he whispered "and search beneath the bushes under this window." (The window was open at the top, and not at the bottom.)
"If you find anything, and you will find something, bring it to me here, but let no one see you do it."
Sergeant Lightning departed on his errand and Sexton" Blake turned to Mr. Horace Shore.
"Would you mind me feeling your pulse, sir?" he asked quietly.
"But—but what for?" the man stammered; and even Smeeth looked round in surprise.
"I will tell you when I have felt it," Sexton Blake answered: and calmly took the man's wrist before he could protest.
"Ah, very rapid and unsteady," he remarked, as he dropped it, "even allowing for the shock of the death of your uncle Mr. Shore, you must be a very light sleeper."
"I am," Horace Shore agreed readily.
"Then how was it that you were not disturbed by the shot if you live in the house?" Sexton Blake inquired.
Mr. Horace Shore looked rather staggered, but he answered readily enough.
"The fact is," he said, "I dined with some friends last night, found the hour rather late when I decided to come home, so stayed the night with them. I only arrived here an hour ago, came to see my uncle—he is usually to be found in this room at about that hour—and saw this."
He nodded expressively towards the dead man.
Before Sexton Blake could ask further questions. even if ho wished to do so, two men entered the room, and Inspector Smeeth bowed to them respectfully. As they entered, Mr. Horace Shore slipped out.
The new-comers were two detectives sent down with all speed from the Yard. They set about their work in a business-like fashion, and Sexton Blake, having apparently nothing further to do, strolled round the room examining its contents. He stepped at a writing-table, seated himself at if a moment. and when he rose to his feet again there was an odd little on his lips.
The detectives from the Yard had finished their examinations now they turned to Inspector Smeeth.
"No doubt at all about it, inspector," one of them said blandly; "a ease of suicide. No business worries, I believe— I spoke to Mrs. Ludlow as I came in—but people have curious reasons for committing suicide."
"You are sure that it is suicide?" Sexton Blake queried; and the detectives wheeled round upon him.
"That is Constable Brown, of our station, gentleman," Inspector Smeeth explained, with a touch of pride in his voice.
"And what would you call it, my man?" the detective demanded sharply.
"Murder," Sexton Blake answered quietly. The detectives began to laugh, remembered that they were in the presence of death, and pulled themselves up abruptly.
"Most interesting," the bigger man of the two remarked. "What proof have you?"
Sexton Blake strolled back to the writing-table and pointed to the pen and the inkstand. Both were well to the left of the table.
"A curious thing," he said, "that a left -handed man should have shot himself in the right temple."
Sergeant Lightning skated into the room and slid something in to Sexton Blake's hand.
"Found it under the bushes," he wheezed,
"Good! Say nothing," Sexton Blake whispered; and turned again to the detectives, "You grasp my point?"
The detectives were once more examining the body, and when they rose to their feet all doubt had vanished from their faces.
"He may have been left-handed," one of them said, with determination, "but he shot himself right enough. One chamber of the revolver empty, the flesh blackened by the wound. Yes, Henry Ludlow died by his own hand." The detective turned to Inspector Smeeth. "Leave a man in charge, and we will arrange the rest."
Strolling back to the station together, Sergeant Lightning bringing up the rear, Sexton Blake and Inspector Smeeth said very little, but once he was in his office the inspector turned to the detective.
"Look here, Brown," he said sharply; "what did you mean by disagreeing with the detectives? It'll keep you from going to the Yard just yet."
From. his pocket Sexton Blake produced a small object and laid it upon the desk in front of his chief. it was an empty cartridge-case, of the same size as the ones in the revolver found in the dead man's hand.
"What do you make of that?' he queried.
"Brown," Smeeth protested sternly, "you should not have taken that from the revolver. They'll make an awful row about it up at the Yard."
"I didn't, sir," Sexton Blake answered quietly. "Sergeant Lightning found that for me in the bushes under the window. I told him to look for it."
With a startled cry, Inspector Smeeth leapt to his feet.
"It means!" he cried, "that-"
"That it was murder!"
Inspector Smeeth dropped into his chair, examined the cartridge-case again, and passed a hand nervously across his brow. "What proof have you except this?" he asked mechanically.
"The deceased was left-handed, yet he shot himself while holding the revolver in his right hand—according to the men from the Yard—but, in reality, two shots were fired, one after the man was dead. It was the second that burned the flesh around the bullet-hole. That was done to give the appearance of suicide."
"But two bullets would have been found in the wound," Smeeth objected.
"It has not been examined yet, sir," Sexton Blake said quietly; "but even then only one will be found. The other has already been removed."
"By whom?" Inspector Smeeth gasped
"By the murderer."
"Yes, yes; but who is the murderer?"
Sexton Blake smiled. This was really a very simple little case to him, but.it was evidently rather wonderful to the police. He was glad he had joined the force.
"Tomorrow," he said, "if you will grant me leave of absence until then, I will bring the murderer here."
Inspector Smeeth looked completely thrown off his mental balance, but slowly his face cleared, and he held out his hand to Brown.
"Take what leave you like!" he cried. "You're a credit to us. They're mighty cocky up at the Yard, and it would be a feather in our caps if you proved them wrong."
"Thank you, sir," Sexton Blake answered quietly; and left the office.
He felt pretty certain already who the murderer was, but he meant to get proof, and plenty of it, before arresting him. "His reputation—his new reputation—would not allow him to make a mistake.
The First Clue—Tinker Assists—
Evidence Mounting Up—The Clue of the Cab.
LEAVING the station, Sexton Blake despatched an unsigned wire to Tinker, telling him to meet him at a certain spot in the East End of London, then he once more made his way to the house in which Mr. Henry Ludlow had been murdered.
"Mr. Shore still in?" Sexton Blake asked of the constable on duty at the door.
"Yes, though I believe he's going out soon," the man answered.
Sexton Blake entered the house, and walked straight into Mr. Horace Shore, who, garbed in hat and coat, was evidently just about to go out. His face looked a trifle ugly as he caught sight of the detective, but he controlled his feelings and smiled slightly.
"What can I do for you?" he asked. "I thought that you had received all necessary information this morning."
"Oh, very neatly, sir," Sexton Blake answered carelessly; "but there are just one or two little matters that it may as well be best to settle before the inquest. You know what these juries are, sir. Give them a plain case of suicide——"
"Like that of my lamented uncle," Mr. Horace Shore interjected.
"Exactly," Sexton Blake agreed. "But unless you furnish them with facts enough to fill a newspaper they won't return a common-sense verdict."
Mr. Horace Shore smiled, and rubbed his long-fingered, nervous hands together. They were the hands of an artist, or a surgeon. Sexton Blake pulled out a notebook.
"First of all, sir," he said, "was the deceased known to possess the revolver with which he shot himself?"
"Oh, yes!" Shore answered readily. "He was a man with a great fear of burglars, and therefore kept the weapon in the right-hand drawer of the desk in the room where he was found dead."
"Good! Sexton Blake murmured; then continued, in a quietly indifferent tone: "I forgot to ask you your profession. Juries are very keen on that kind of thing, you know."
Mr. Horace Shore started a trifle, but quickly recovered himself. The slight smile never left his lips.
"The fact is," he said slowly, "that I do nothing. I was my uncle's nephew, and also his adopted son and heir. There was was no need for me to continue in my profession."
"Then you had a profession once, Mr. Shore?"
There was no doubt about it, Mr. Horace Shore had made a slip, and could not get out of it.
"Yes," he agreed, trying to speak carelessly. "I studied to be a surgeon, and, in fact, passed the necessary examinations which would have qualified me to practise."
Sexton Blake closed his notebook and turned towards the door; then stopped, as if he had suddenly remembered something.
"Sorry to trouble you about semi-private affairs, Mr. Shore," he said, "but who were the friends with whom you stayed last night? The jury are bound to want you to give an account of your movements; they always do."
"I was with Mr. and Mrs. Paul Stannard, of Orme Street, for the greater part of the evening," Horace Shore answered, with an evident touch of nervousness in his voice. "I left their place at about twelve, walked to the station, found that the last train had gone, and returned to a little club near Soho, where I stopped the night."
"A gambling club?" Sexton Blake suggested blandly.
"Some would call it that," Mr. Horace Shore snapped. "Anyway, I was there by one, as Alphonse, the doorkeeper, will tell you."
"It must have taken you a long time to get to the station and back," Sexton Blake remarked.
"My friends' house lies in an inconvenient spot," Shore answered readily, "and I walked both ways."
Sexton Blake shut up his notebook and-returned it to his pocket.
"I wonder why you didn't think of taking a hansom home, sir," he said. "It would have been quicker than going to the club. You could have done it, with a decent horse, in less than half an hour. Good-day!"
Feeling rather pleased with himself, Sexton Blake left the house, hurried down to the main thoroughfares, and there took a tram eastwards. One or two changes, then a short ride in a hansom, landed him at the spot where he was to meet Tinker. The boy was there, waiting for him.
"Anything new, sir?" Tinker asked eagerly.
"No, my lad," the detective answered, "except that this police business keeps me busier than I had expected it to. It isn't quite uninteresting, either. I flatter myself that I shall have cleared up a rather pretty little crime by tomorrow."
"What kind, sir?"
"Murder! "
Tinker whistled, and thrust his hands deep into his pockets as he strode along beside his chief.
"Mr. Ludlow, I suppose, sir?"
"Yes," Sexton Blake answered.
Tinker asked no more, knowing full well that his master was not fond of being questioned, and he did not even speak when Sexton Blake took a hansom and ordered the man to drive to Orme Street.
Arrived at Orme Street, a rather fashionable-looking thoroughfare, Sexton Blake dismissed the cab, and entered a small restaurant standing in a side-street.
"Tinker," he said, before the solitary waiter could come up, "you have to find a cabman who drove a gentleman from here, or near here, to Great Tudno Street at about twelve last night. He did not bring him back. I fancy that the horse has been newly shod on the near-side foreleg. I shall wait here until you return."
Without asking a question, knowing exactly what was required of him, Tinker hurried away, and Sexton Blake, having ordered and received a meal, made his way leisurely through it. Then he lit a cigar, took up a newspaper, and waited patiently. Even without the evidence of the cabman, Sexton Blake had no doubt that he could net his man, but he was anxious to have a string of evidence which nothing could break.
A cab drew up sharply outside, and Tinker, a grin on his face, entered the restaurant.
"The cab's waiting for you, sir," he said.
"Good boy," Sexton Blake answered, patting Tinker on the shoulder, and at the same time motioning the waiter to bring him his bill. You are sure that it is the right man?"
"Yes, sir."
Entering the cab with Tinker, Sexton Blake ordered the man to drive to the nearest decent public-house. Arrived there, the detective bade the man leave his horse in charge of a loafer, and come with him into the saloon-bar, which, at that time of the day, was deserted.
The cabman, who was a big, cheerful-looking man, with horse literally written all over him, made no objection, though he eyed the detective with an inquiring glance.
"Well, sir," he said, when he had got a drink before him, or what was left of it after his first sip, "what's the game?"
"A matter of a bet, my man," Sexton Blake answered quietly. "A friend of mine bet me that he had been driven from here to Great Tudno Street in the half-hour. I said that it couldn't be done."
The cabman finished his drink, tilted his hat back, and scratched his head thoughtfully.
"Mejum-sized gent, dark' air, in a deuce of a 'urry?" he suggested.
"Yes, that is the description of my friend," Sexton Blake agreed, with a smile. Affairs were shaping distinctly well.
"Then I did the drive fer him in twenty minutes, mister," the cabman said. "The streets are clear about that time o' night, an', thanks be ter Providence, the L.C.C. 'adn't got more'n three streets up."
"At what time was that?" Sexton Blake asked carelessly, not daring to make a note of the facts, for fear of frightening the man into silence.
"Ten to twelve, near as mebbe," the cabman answered, without hesitation; "an' we was in Great Tudno Street— 51—if me memory don't deceive me, at ten past."
Sexton Blake slipped half-a-sovereign into the man's hand.
"Thanks," he said; "that's all I shall want."
"As fer me, sir," the cabby remarked, slipping the coin into his pocket, after carefully testing it with his teeth, "I'm agreeable to 'avin' any number o' these here little chats at about the same price.
The moment that the cabman had left the bar, Sexton Blake made sundry entries in his notebook, including the cabman's number. He felt sure of Mr. Horace Shore now. There was no doubt that he had driven to Great Tudno Street on the night of the murder, choosing a fast horse, and had had time enough to commit the crime, make it look like a suicide, and even then be in the Soho club, by the aid of a cab, by one in the morning.
"What next, sir?" Tinker asked, as he left the public-house with his master.
"You will go home," Sexton Blake said quietly, "fetch the small black bag lying in my bed-room, and take it—not before it is dark—to the house in Great Tudno Street. Slip it over the wall, and into the bushes on the right-hand side of the gate of the drive. You understand?"
"And after that, sir?"
"You will go home."
Tinker looked up a trifle wistfully into his master's face.
"How soon will you be back home, sir?" he ventured- "and letting me help you as I used to?"
"Very soon now, my lad," Sexton Blake answered kindly. "The time is very near when we shall settle finally with our friend Spearing."
"Good, sir!" Tinker said gleefully. "Good-bye, now, and good luck to-night!"
Waiting the Time—The Amateur Burglar—
The Case of Instruments Detected—The Arrest.
DURING the remainder of the day, Sexton Blake had very little to do, but he did not entirely waste the time. Very circumspectly, for he did not wish to arouse Mr. Horace Shore's fears, he made inquiries with regard to that gentleman's life, and it was not long before he had learnt some interesting facts.
In the first place, Shore gambled heavily at the club in Soho, not always with the best of luck. Secondly, he owned three racehorses, which had not as yet so much as earned their keep, and ran them under an assumed name. There were several other interesting facts, all of which went to show that Mr. Horace Shore was spending a great deal of money, and owing as much more.
There was the motive for the crime. Mr. Horace Shore, nephew and heir of the deceased, would be the one to benefit by the old man's death.
It was not until pretty nearly eleven o'clock at night that Sexton Blake, walking all the way, reached Great Tudno Street, which he found practically deserted. Throughout the day there had always been a crowd before the house in which the dead man lay, but the sightseers were not hardy enough to keep up their curiosity in the face of a nasty wind and a drizzling rain. Sexton Blake was glad of this; a crowd would have been distinctly awkward.
In several of the lower windows of the house lights burned, but as no figures passed between them and the thin canvas curtains, Sexton Blake concluded that most of the household, if not all, were in bed.
Outside the front door a policeman, his figure revealed by the lights from the windows, stood on duty. Sexton Blake glanced round quickly, saw that he could not enter by the gate, if he did not wish to be observed by the man, and slipped over the fence.
Very gently he lowered himself into the bushes, then felt cautiously about with his hands. Tinker had not failed him; the bag was there. It was a small affair, but surprisingly heavy for its size.
Sexton Blake was about to creep back over the wall with this, when the door of the house opened, and he dropped down amongst the bushes again.
Through the doorway came Mr. Horace Shore, a light coat over his evening-dress, nodded to the policeman on duty, and hurried down the drive. He passed within a dozen feet of Sexton Blake, but the bushes effectually hid the detective.
Waiting fully five minutes, to make sure that the man was not returning, Sexton Blake slipped back over the fence, carrying the bag with him, and regained the street. Walking rapidly, he reached a side road, turned into another road, little more than a lane, and eventually reached the back wall of the garden of No. 51, Great Tudno Street.
After a quick glance up and down the lane, to make sure that there was no one in sight, Sexton Blake climbed the wall, and dropped down into the garden. Anyone watching would have guessed his intentions. He was going to break into the house from the back.
Why did he not go boldly up to the front door, where the policeman on duty would have at once admitted him? For an excellent reason. He already had a large amount of evidence against Mr. Horace Shore, but Sexton Blake meant to obtain the last and most important piece before he played his hand. The man might have an ally in the house, and that would mean that Mr. Horace Shore, warned of his danger, would probably find it convenient to disappear. That was why, for one night only, Sexton Blake had turned burglar.
Creeping across the grass, and carefully avoiding a beam of light issuing from one of the lower windows, the detective reached the back of the house, and stood beneath the shelter of a balcony. Once more he looked round, to make certain that there were no watchers, then he gripped one of the pillars of the balcony, and swarmed nimbly up.
French windows opened on to this balcony. Sexton Blake opened his bag, took out a slender steel instrument, and set to work. There was a faint creak, the clicking of a dropped catch, and the window was open. Slipping through, Sexton Blake closed the window behind him, and stood quite still, listening intently. Right up at the top of the house someone was stirring, most probably a frightened servant who could not sleep, but otherwise there was not a sound,
Mr. Horace Shore was out, that Sexton Blake knew, and in his absence it should be easy enough to roam undetected about the house. Even if the servants did hear a noise it was unlikely that anyone would have nerve enough to come out and see what had caused it. The murdered man still lay in the house, on a bed now, and covered decently by a sheet, and the servants were thinking of ghosts.
After a brief pause, Sexton Blake moved softly across the room, carrying his small bag with him, until he reached a door. Inch by inch he opened this, without it so much as creaking, and peered out into the passage beyond. It was lit by only one electric light, and that was at the further end, so that a good part of the corridor was in darkness.
Then for the first time Sexton Blake realised that he had not got the faintest idea where Mr. Horace Shore's rooms lay. For a moment he looked annoyed, but his face cleared quickly, and he smiled.
Moving out into the passage, Sexton Blake passed the door of the room in which the old man had been found dead, and paused before another on the opposite side, He sniffed sharply, shook his head, and moved on. Up another flight of stairs he went, stopped, and sniffed outside the first door. He was satisfied, apparently, for turning the handle of the door carefully, he entered the room beyond.
Sexton Blake had discovered Horace Shore's rooms by the simple expedient of smelling for smoke, guessing that the young man would probably be the only member of the family in the habit of smoking in his bed-room.
From his bag Sexton Blake produced a small electric lamp, and switched it on, filling the room, which seemed to be a kind of study and dressing-room combined, with a dim light. Finding the switch of the electric light, Sexton Blake pressed it, and returned his own lamp to the bag.
It was an ordinary sort of room, with little to indicate the tastes of its occupier, save that one might tell by the smell of smoke that he was a confirmed smoker.
"Good cigars, too," Sexton Blake mused, picking up a box from a side table. "If his other tastes are as expensive, I can understand our friend being hard up."
Systematically, missing nothing, Sexton Blake began to make his search of the room. Once or twice he had to pick the locks of drawers, but he did not hesitate to do so, and the more he searched the more he knew that he was acting in the right, though as yet he had not come across the one great thing which he wanted to find.
In some of the drawers were letters with regard to the horses in training, another was pretty nearly full of unpaid bills. Here and there were threatening letters—one from a bookmaker, whose account had not been settled. Evidence everywhere of the kind of man that Horace Shore was, and of the life that he was leading.
The search of the room was finished, and still the one thing for which Sexton Blake really searched had not been found. He dropped into a chair, and with eyes half closed, thought deeply. Had he been wrong in tacking the murder —for murder he could prove that it was—on to the shoulders of Mr. Horace Shore? No, the man had done it. The detective was certain of it, and he must have hidden———
Right beside Sexton Blake, in a corner of the room, stood a desk, and his eyes chancing to fall upon its surface, he saw a mark that brought him to his feet again, an eager expression on his face.
Right on the edge of the desk, plain on the polished wood, was the imprint of the tips of four fingers. None but a detective would have noticed so small a thing. Yet it is on such trifles as these that murder hangs, and can be proved.
Then, as if the man had been before him, Sexton Blake saw that for some reason Mr. Horace Shore had been on his knees close to the edge of the desk, and had helped himself to rise by gripping the woodwork, and so leaving the tell-tale clue.
Dropping to his knees, Sexton Blake looked sharply round, then bent and lifted the carpet. It was a square, laid down in the middle of the room, and not reaching to its sides, It came up easily enough, and the detective saw that a square of board, such as is left by gasfitters so that they may get at awkward joints without trouble, lay loose. He lifted the piece of board, thrust his hand into the hole, and drew something out, a square case, covered with rather worn leather, and bearing the initials "H.S." on the lid.
Placing the case on the desk, Sexton Blake opened it. It was not locked. Before him lay a very good set of surgical instruments. He smiled, and picked out a particular one, which he carried close to the light. It was shining and clean, save quite close up to the haft, and there there was a little dark brown stain.
Sexton Blake had won, and he held the murderer of Henry Ludlow in his hand. This little instrument, of the finest steel, was the one with which the second bullet had been extracted from the wound in the dead man's skull.
From the direction of the passage came the sharp sound of a man walking quickly, and Sexton Blake, a smile on his lips, dropped into the nearest easy-chair. Horace Shore had returned before expected. It could be no one else. That did not trouble Blake; he might as well make the arrest now as stop for a warrant in the morning. He felt in his left-hand pocket of his coat, as if to make sure that something was there.
The door of the room opened, and Horace Shore, a half consumed cigar between his teeth, entered hurriedly. Sexton Blake was seated right opposite the door, and the man caught sight of him the moment he entered.
He stopped short, the cigar fell from between his teeth as his jaw dropped, and altogether he looked about as surprised as any man could. And in his eyes there was an unmistakable look of fear, too. Then, as if suddenly pulling himself together, he closed the door and locked it.
"Thank you," Sexton Blake murmured. "You have saved me the trouble. "
Mr. Horace Shore advanced a couple more steps into the room. An ugly expression had taken possession of his face. His right hand was in his coat pocket, and Sexton. Blake still kept his left hidden.
"Who let you in?" Shore snarled. "That fool at the door, I suppose?"
"No," Sexton Blake answered blandly. "I rather wanted to come in, without disturbing anybody, so I just dropped in from the back. Up the balcony, through the French windows, and there you are."
"You broke in?"
Sexton Blake smiled protestingly, and shrugged his shoulders.
"I am a detective," he answered blandly, "and under certain circumstances anything is justifiable."
"There were no circumstances to justify this," Horace Shore snapped. "And I mean that you shall explain before you leave this———"
For the first time Horace Shore noticed the case of instruments lying on the desk, and his face went a livid white. Even from his lips the blood seemed to have gone, and the hand that he raised to his forehead, to wipe the perspiration away, shook badly.
"Under certain circumstances," Sexton Blake murmured, "anything is justifiable."
Only for a short time did Horace Shore stand like a man stunned, then he pulled himself together, and his face set fiercely. He drew nearer to the detective, his right hand still hidden in his pocket.
"You are right," he hissed, "and therefore I am going to shoot——"
"Drop it!" Sexton Blake commanded sharply. "I have you covered through my pocket."
With his revolver half raised, Horace Shore stood helpless. He could see that the detective was in earnest, and that under the cloth of his coat the barrel of a pistol bulged threateningly.
Sexton Blake smiled. In the hour of his triumph he had reason to be pleased.
"It's a pity that you went to the expense of buying that toy, Mr. Shore," he remarked, "as you are never likely to have the chance of using it. Kindly drop it; then step over to the desk."
Horace Shore hesitated, saw that he could do nothing, and obeyed.
Rising from his seat, Sexton Blake picked up the revolver, dropped it into his pocket, and faced the murderer. Then with a quick bound he was on his man, and had rolled him over on to the floor.
Shore fought for all he was worth, but Sexton Blake got a grip on him on one wrist and the throat, and the fight did not last long.
Click! The handcuffs were on one wrist. A short struggle, and the other wrist was secured, too.
"Get. up!" Sexton Blake commanded, rising to his feet, and tucking the tell-tale case of surgical instruments under his arm. "We are going to take a little walk together."
"Where to?" Horace Shore panted mechanically,
"The police-station," Sexton Blake answered, with his cool simile.
"Are you man or fiend?" the prisoner panted.
"I am Constable Brown," Sexton Blake answered blandly, as he unlocked the door of the room and led his prisoner out, "very much—at the present time—at your service."
Called to the Yard—The Interview with Mr. Spearing—Special
Duty—The Train Robbers—Sexton Blake Has an Amusing Time.
"THAT last arrest has done it, Brown," Inspector Smeeth said, as Sexton Blake entered the office two mornings after his capture of Horace Shore for the murder of his uncle. "Shake hands. I congratulate you!"
"But what for, sir?" the detective asked innocently, though he guessed well enough what had happened.
"You're to go to the Yard, my boy," Smeeth explained enthusiastically. "Just heard from Mr. Spearing, and you're to go there at once. Get into mufti, man, and go there without delay. You'll get plenty of work to do, and you'll do it."
"Thank you, sir; I shall do my best," Sexton Blake replied modestly. He was chuckling inwardly. At last he was to come under the eye of Mr. Spearing himself, and he had not the slightest fear that he would be recognised. He would be even safer from detection at the Yard than he was at the Mainly Street police-station.
Sexton Blake was in no hurry to stop the farce, for he was enjoying it immensely; but he knew that he would have to return to himself soon, as there was business, and many other things, that needed attention.
After bidding good-bye to Inspector Smeeth and all the men who were at the station, and promising to put in a word for them at the Yard if he ever got the chance, Sexton Blake hurried to his lodgings, changed into mufti, then made his way to the house of Sergeant Lightning, who was off duty until the afternoon. He found the worthy sergeant, minus his coat, placidly smoking in the kitchen, while Mrs. Lightning prepared an early dinner.
"Hallo!" Sergeant Lightning wheezed, rising to his feet and positively doing a championship skate up to Sexton Blake. "I know what it is. I'm no great catch at the detective business, but I knows what I knows. That arrest fetched 'em, an' it's the Yard, my boy, it's the Yard!"
"Right," Sexton Blake agreed, cordially shaking the hand that was held out to him.
"Bobby will be pleased," the sergeant chortled; "he thinks a lot o' you."
"And we'll think a lot of him, old man," Sexton Blake answered good-naturedly, "when he's making his fortune in the ham and beef line."
Sergeant Lightning sighed, and plugged the tobacco down in his pipe.
"I reckon that's off," he said sadly. "You an' me might ha' got this Sexton Blake, an' gone halves in the reward. That would ha' started him proper, and a bit over. But that's off now. You won't have time, you won't, really. They'll be makin' you 'ead detective soon, an' there won't be no time to go messin' about with a-humble sergeant then."
Now Sexton Blake had taken a real liking to Sergeant Lightning, and he proved it now.
"Look here, Lightning," he said quietly, "you're wrong, and I'm going to tell you something. I can, and will, put my hands on this Sexton Blake when the time comes, and you shall be the man to find him! "
With a gasp Sergeant Lightning dropped back into his chair.
"You—you mean that?"
"Wait and see," Sexton Blake said reassuringly, as he shook the sergeant's hand; "but not a word to the others at the station. Good-bye!"
Leaving the house, and taking a hansom, Sexton Blake set off for Scotland Yard. He did not drive right up to the entrance, being aware of the fact that it is not usual for constables to travel about in cabs, and approached the entrance on foot. He had been there many a time before, but never in the capacity that he was going now, and he could not help smiling as he approached the man on duty at the door.
"Business?" the man demanded shortly.
"To see Mr. Spearing," Sexton Blake answered. "I'm Brown."
"Lucky beast!" the doorkeeper said good-naturedly, as he drew aside to let the detective pass in.
A very few minutes later Sexton Blake stood before Mr. Spearing. He stood with his eyes turned towards the ground, and his shoulders a trifle bowed. His modest manner was all that it should have been in the presence of his vastly superior officer.
Mr. Spearing had not changed in the least. He was big as ever, as stern looking as ever, and his voice still came out in the same jerky, gusty manner. Sexton Blake chuckled inwardly as he glanced up at the great man, close to whose head was one of the bills offering five hundred pounds reward to the person or persons who could discover the whereabouts of a certain Sexton Blake.
"You are Brown?" Mr. Spearing asked, looking up and eyeing his visitor.
"Yes, sir."
"Found and arrested the murderer of Henry Ludlow. Not bad, new hand," Mr. Spearing jerked out; then something about the constable's bearing struck him.
"Stand up, man!" he ordered sharply.
Sexton Blake seemed to rouse himself by an effort, and succeeded in standing fairly upright.
"We are going to give you a chance here," Mr. Spearing continued. "Able man—get on; fool of a man—go back to district. You understand?"
"Yes, sir; I will do my best."
"Of course, quite right," Mr. Spearing agreed. "Want experience at present; soon learn, though."
"I trust so, sir," Sexton Blake murmured humbly. "What would you like me to do first?"
Mr. Spearing was quite as amazed as Inspector Smeeth had been when Sexton Blake asked him much the same question.
"What d'you mean?" he snapped.
Sexton Blake straightened his shoulders a trifle more, and looked dreamily at his chief.
"Thought there might. be something special on, sir," he explained calmly.
"Always plenty on," Mr. Spearing snapped. "Yard's the hub of London. We do everything; we're the Yard."
"Yes, sir."
Inwardly, Mr. Spearing was quite convinced that a mistake had been made somewhere, and was equally certain that the man before him was a fool of the best variety; in fact, that seldom found being, a perfect fool. It is rare to be perfect, even in folly. He therefore decided to test him at once in a manner that would not throw much discredit upon the Yard should anything go wrong.
"Listen to me, Brown," he said sharply. "A Mr. Edmunds starts for Leeds at two, carries valuable jewels with him, worth thousands, and has applied for protection."
"Can't he look after himself, sir?" Sexton Blake queried innocently.
With his face rather redder than usual, Mr. Spearing stared at the new man, only to find that he looked as innocently foolish as-ever. He could not possibly have meant anything by the remark. Certainly, the man was a fool, there could be no doubt about it. Mr. Spearing did not say this aloud, but he looked it. In the same way, Sexton Blake did not smile visibly, but he did inwardly.
"You will call on him at once, Grosvenor Hotel, Fulwell Street. Go with him to Leeds, see him safe, come back here and report. Here are your papers."
"Yes, sir."
"Now go, and, remember, the Yard only wants good men."
"Yes, sir."
Sexton Blake saluted himself out of the office, strolled out of the narrow roads surrounding Scotland Yard, and cabbed it to the Grosvenor. There he inquired for Mr. Edmunds, and was at once shown up to a private sitting-room, where a small, nervous-looking man was having lunch alone.
As Sexton Blake entered the little man made a frantic grab at a brown bag which lay on the table, nor did he leave go of it for fully five minutes.
"Who—who are you?" he asked, nearly choking himself with a piece of bread that had gone the wrong way.
"Brown, sir. Mr. Spearing of the Yard sent me," Sexton Blake explained. "Taking you to Leeds, you know, sir."
"You mean, coming with me to Leeds," Mr. Edmunds corrected sharply, looking a trifle indignant.
"Same thing, sir," Sexton Blake responded, with the sharp, certain speech of the Scotland Yard man. "I take you, go with you, or you take me—all the same, so long as we get there."
Mr. Edmunds, a trifle mollified, continued his lunch, and even ordered wine of a rather cheap kind for Sexton Blake. By the time that the meal was finished it was time to start for the station.
Carrying the precious brown bag very carefully, and telling Sexton Blake to keep close behind him, Mr. Edmunds led the way from the hotel. A hansom was whistled up, and some twenty minutes later King's Cross was reached, in good time for the train.
"Very sorry to trouble you, sir," Sexton Blake said respectfully, as his companion was about to enter the station; "but I have to go into that bag-shop over there. Will you come across or wait here?"
Of course, Mr. Edmunds was not afraid. Still, he crossed the road with the detective, and waited outside the shop until the latter emerged with a brand-new portmanteau in his hand.
"What the dickens d'you want that for?" Mr. Edmunds asked in surprise.
"It's a clue," Sexton Blake answered, so solemnly that Mr. Edmunds, thinking of crimes in which bags and trunks had figured, did not venture to say more.
Strolling on to the platform, Edmunds first, Sexton Blake close behind him, the latter was not idle. He knew the faces of London's sharps and criminals better than most men at the Yard, and felt sure that he would be able to spot any man or men who might have designs on the brown bag. He was not wrong, for just as Edmunds led the way into a first-class smoker, Sexton Blake spotted his man.
This individual, known amongst his fraternity and to the police as Flash Charley, would have passed anywhere as a well-to-do man about town, most probably travelling for amusement. Yet in reality, he was merely a rather finished thief, who depended largely upon his appearance for his success.
This man, Sexton Blake decided, was just the one to have a try for the bag, and decided to be on his guard against him. Not that there was any chance of the precious bag being stolen, for Sexton Blake meant to guard against all possibility of that.
That Mr. Edmunds was relieved when the train steamed out of the station there could be no doubt, for he showed it plainly enough. He lit a cigar, and handed another to Sexton Blake.
"Terribly trying for the nerves, Mr. Brown," he said, with a knowing shake of his head. He had light, fluffy hair. rather thin on top, and when he shook it it fluffed up like the hair on the back of a cat.
"Then don't smoke," Sexton Blake suggested.
"Oh, I didn't mean the smoking!" Mr. Edmunds corrected. "I was speaking of carrying thousands of pounds' worth of jewels about. You are at the mercy of the world, as it were, one man——"
"Two," Sexton Blake put in calmly.
'But you're a detective," Mr. Edmunds objected snappishly, evidently annoyed at being interrupted.
"Ah, of course, they don't count," Sexton Blake agreed.
"As I said," Mr. Edmunds continued, "one man against the world." He smiled now, quite brave as soon as danger was passed. "Last night I didn't sleep, couldn't because of that precious bag; and I'm infernally tired now."
Mr. Edmunds proved it. Before the train had gone a dozen miles he was nodding; three miles more and the cigar had fallen from his fingers, and he was asleep. Sexton Blake looked at him steadily, then he let down the window noiselessly. The sleeper did not stir, he was in the land of dreams right enough.
Sexton Blake had brought his brand-new portmanteau into the carriage with him, and now he cautiously unstrapped it. From it he drew a bag exactly similar to the one lying beside the sleeper, and a few seconds later the two had been changed. The portmanteau was restrapped, and nothing in the carriage looked different. Yet the thousands of pounds' worth of precious stones were now in the detective's keeping instead of Mr. Edmunds'.
Even Sexton Blake, now that he had done all that he desired, went off into a doze, which developed into a sleep; and it was not until the train began to slacken down at its first stopping-place that he awoke. Mr. Edmunds was already wide-awake, and seated with one hand on the precious bag.
"Good thing I kept awake," he said surlily, evidently not in the best of tempers after his nap.
"You haven't been asleep, I suppose, sir?" Sexton Blake suggested.
"Asleep!" Mr. Edmunds snapped. "I know my duty to my employers too well."
Sexton Blake smiled. If luck favoured him he would very shortly be able to take a rise out of his bad-tempered companion.
As soon as the train stopped at the station, where there was a wait of seven minutes, Sexton Blake alighted.
"We'll just stretch our legs, sir," he said.
Nothing loth, Mr. Edmunds followed, carrying the precious bag—no longer really precious—with him. But Sexton Blake, snatching it none too gently from his hand, pitched it up on the rack of the carriage.
"How dare you?" Mr. Edmunds protested, trying to dive back into the compartment, but prevented from doing so by the detective's grip on his arm.
"Now, look here, sir," Sexton Blake said persuasively, "if you get carrying that bag about continually you'll only arouse suspicion! Leave it where it is; we can see that no one enters the compartment."
Rather reluctantly Mr. Edmunds obeyed. And the two strolled up and down the platform, Edmunds continually keeping an eye on the carriage. Sexton Blake was not idle, too, though he did not seem to take particular notice of anything.
He saw Flash Charley leave his compartment, two from the one in which the precious bag lay, and hurry down the platform until he was lost in the crowd. Just as Sexton Blake and Mr. Edmunds re-entered the compartment the former saw Flash Charley step into his. The thief was looking distinctly pleased with himself, and was carrying something under his light overcoat.
Sexton Blake knew that he had taken the bag from the rack, slipping into the compartment while no one was looking, from the other side of the train, and chuckled at the surprise in store for the bad-tempered Mr. Edmunds.
"Thank heaven we're off!" the latter exclaimed, as the train moved out of the station. "They can't do us any harm now. No stop until Leeds."
"Bag all right, I suppose?" Sexton Blake answered, glancing up at the rack.
Yes, the bag was all right. Mr. Edmunds made sure of that fact by looking up at the rack, and no more was said until five or six miles had been covered. Edmunds had buried himself behind a paper bought at the station, and seemed to be entirely absorbed by the news.
"I suppose the bag is all right, sir?" Sexton Blake remarked again, throwing a tinge of anxiety into his voice.
Mr. Edmunds threw down his paper, and looked savage.
"Of course it is!' he snapped, reaching the bag down. "Look here!"
Taking a small key from his pocket, Mr. Edmunds unlocked the bag. Then a yell of terror broke from him, the bag dropped to the ground, and a brick dropped out.
"The diamonds!" the man shrieked. "Stop the train—they're gone!"
Sexton Blake Explains—The Missing Bag—
Along the Footboard—Flash Charley
Receives a Surprise—Back to London—
Mr. Spearing Changes His Mind.
MR. EDMUNDS sat staring at the empty bag, his face pallid, his jaw dropped. Sexton Blake, on the seat opposite, took out a cigar, carefully cut off the end, and lit it.
"Look!" Mr. Edmunds gasped, as if he wished the other to assure him that he was not dreaming, pointing at the bag and the brick.
Sexton Blake picked up the bag, and extracted the brick from him. He eyed it with the air of an expert in such matters.
"Very good of its kind," he murmured. "I should say that it came from the brickfields at—"
This was too much for Mr. Edmunds, and he clenched his hands as if he would have struck the detective.
"How dare you!" he yelled. "I employed you to protect me, and now—the diamonds are gone!" He fairly wailed out the last words.
Sexton Blake flicked the ash from his cigar, and smiled slightly. He had meant to punish this man, and he had succeeded.
"I think you said that you employed me to protect you and the diamonds?" he suggested.
"Yes!" Mr. Edmunds snapped, recovering his nerves sufficiently to be angry.
"Well, I have not failed."
Mr. Edmunds looked up as sharply as if he had been struck in the face, and stared at the detective. At the same time, the latter bent down and unstrapped his portmanteau. Out of it he took the precious bag, and Mr. Edmunds, guessing something of the truth, fairly snatched it from his hands. His key fitted it, as it had the other one—the locks of most bags are alike—and, with trembling fingers, he opened it.
"The diamonds!" he cried. "The diamonds—safe! "
"I was employed to that end," Sexton Blake remarked coldly.
Mr. Edmunds, still pale but very much relieved, leant back in his seat, one hand on the precious bag, and stared at the detective.
"How—how did it happen?" he asked shakily.
"You said that you did not sleep, your duty to your employers prevented such a thing," Sexton Blake answered, "Were you—er—mistaken?"
"Yes, yes; I must have slept!" Mr. Edmunds agreed hastily.
"Very well, while you slept I took the liberty of exchanging your bag for one of my own," Sexton Blake explained coolly.
"But why did——"
"For the excellent reason that I had spotted a certain individual on the platform at King's Cross," the detective continued, "and felt certain that he meant to have a try for your bag. He did, and he has taken my bag, replacing it with one he had of exactly similar shape to your own."
"And why did you do this without telling me?" Mr. Edmunds demanded.
"Because," Sexton Blake said quietly, "you had no right to be rude, even to a man in your employ, to a— detective."
Mr. Edmunds, thoroughly ashamed of himself. held out his hand, and Sexton Blake took it without hesitation.
"And now, my dear sir," he remarked calmly, "we will see if we can't get hold of this gentleman who has taken a perfectly valueless bag instead of yours."
From the corner seat, facing the engine, Sexton Blake, by bending well sideways, could see if anything was thrown out from the next two or three carriages. He was perfectly sure that Flash Charley, finding himself done, would lose no time in getting rid of the bag that he had stolen. The easiest way to do this would be to fling it out of the window.
"There it goes!" Sexton Blake exclaimed. "And here is where I go!"
Almost before Mr. Edmunds could realise what was happening, the detective had opened the door, swung out on to the footboard, and closed the door behind him. The train was travelling so fast that the wind wrenched at the detective, as if trying to force him from his hold.
Bending low, so as to pass the next compartment without being observed, Sexton Blake reached the second compartment. Then he stood up, calmly opened the door, and entered.
At the far end of the carriage sat Flash Charley, sucking furiously at a cigar, and evidently cursing himself with some warmth. As the detective entered, the cigar dropped from his mouth, and he shrank back into his corner, a startled expression on his face, which had suddenly gone white.
Sexton Blake, having closed the door of the carriage, calmly seated himself in front of the man.
"Charley," he remarked, "I should say that you were something of a fool!"
Flash Charley made no answer. He was fairly done, and he could only crouch back and stare at the detective.
"I am from the Yard," Sexton Blake announced. "You may have guessed it."
At the same time he thrust his hand into his pocket, and pulled out a pair of handcuffs.
"Are you coming quietly?"
For a moment it seemed as if Flash Charley would make a fight for his liberty, then he caught the glint in the grey eyes of the detective, and held out his hands. The darbies clicked sharply, and Sexton Blake had made his first capture since his promotion to the Yard.
During the rest of the journey to Leeds, Mr. Edmunds had to travel alone, while Sexton Blake and his prisoner remained in the other carriage. The destination was reached safely, the detective handed his prisoner over to the local police until the next day, saw Mr. Edmunds safely to his place of business, then amused himself until he set out for London by the 7.30 train the next morning, taking Flash Charley with him.
It was a little after one that, driving in a hansom with his prisoner, Sexton Blake reached Scotland Yard. Flash Charley was promptly handed over to the men on duty, and Sexton Blake made his way into Spearing's office. All the alert air had dropped from the detective again, and he was once more the rather sleepy-looking Constable Brown.
"Well?" Mr. Spearing queried sharply, as he saw who his visitor was.
"Been to Leeds, sir," Sexton Blake answered quietly. "Saw Mr. Edmunds safely home."
"So I imagined your duty—what you're here for!" Mr. Spearing snapped, for he was not in the best of tempers on this particular morning. "No attempt made, of course? There wouldn't be."
"Brought Flash Charley back with me, sir," Sexton Blake remarked casually.
"What for?" Mr. Spearing cried, in surprise.
"Had a try for the bag, and failed."
Mr. Spearing's bored air disappeared, and he was all attention.
"We've been trying to get our hands on him, for a long time past—awkward and artful customer," he said quickly. "What happened—what grounds for arrest?"
As shortly as possible, but leaving out no details, Sexton Blake related all that had happened. By the time that the story was finished, Mr. Spearing looked distinctly surprised, and eyed his new man keenly.
"Brown," he said, "I took you for a—er——"
"Fool," Sexton Blake suggested, as his chief hesitated.
"For a fool," Mr. Spearing agreed. "Find I'm wrong— make smart man of you—only experience wanted."
Sexton Blake bowed gratefully. His eyes were on the bill offering a reward of five hundred pounds to the person or persons who would find a certain Sexton Blake. Mr. Spearing, mechanically following the direction of the new man's eyes, started sharply, and looked from the bill to Sexton Blake.
"Tell you what it is, Brown," he said quickly, "I'll let you——"
He stopped abruptly, as if thinking better of it.
"Yes, sir?" Sexton Blake queried.
"No," Mr. Spearing said slowly. "We'll wait a bit. You're off duty to-day, Brown. Report in the morning. Sure to be something turn up."
A Curious Epidemic—The Bag-Lifters—Sexton
Blake Busy—Mr. Spearing Makes Up His Mind.
FEELING rather pleased with himself, Sexton Blake strolled away from Scotland Yard, went quietly down the busy thoroughfares, and reached Hyde Park. The day was still young, and as he seated himself on a bench he wondered how he should pass the time until the morrow, for he was essentially an active man, and hated being idle.
On the way to the Park, Sexton Blake had bought a paper, end he began to idly scan its pages. Presently he looked up, a curious little smile on his lips. He had found something to do. He read the paragraph through again. It ran:
"Now that the holiday season is on, a certain class of thieves are having a busy time. From all the great London stations luggage, more especially the handy and portable portmanteau, is disappearing daily. Detectives are on duty at all the stations, but, so far, at least, very few arrests have been made."
"A fact," Sexton Blake observed inwardly, "which was not surprising."
He knew perfectly well how the authorities set to work to step this kind of petty thieving. They turned on all their newest hands—men who had not forgotten as yet how to look like policemen—and, in consequence, the bag-lifters had practically no trouble in dodging the majesty of the law.
Leaving the Park, and hailing a hansom, Sexton Blake drove away to Trafalgar Square, where he alighted, and finished his journey on foot. He was lucky enough to find Mr. Spearing still busy in his office, and lost no time in going into him.
"Off duty!—what d'you want?" Mr. Spearing demanded, evidently in some surprise.
Sexton Blake saluted respectfully, and stood as upright as he seemed capable of doing.
"The fact is, sir," he explained, with almost a mournful air, "I don't like being idle—doesn't agree with me—and I want your permission to do some work—certain work."
"What is it?" Mr. Spearing asked, his surprise growing.
"There's been a lot of bag stealing at the stations lately, sir," Sexton Blake continued. "May I go and see if I can't lay my hands on a man or two?"
Mr. Spearing first looked surprised, then he looked up eagerly.
"Yes; do as you like," he agreed quickly. "Full permission. Sneak-thieves been an infernal nuisance. All cut men seem to be fools—only nabbed three in two weeks."
Sexton Blake moved towards the door, but paused before he reached it, and glanced back, apparently half sleepily at his chief.
"Any limit, sir?" he asked innocently.
"What d'you mean?" "
'Do you want any particular number of these men taken, sir?" Sexton Blake explained.
Mr. Spearing looked angry, and opened his mouth so sharply that it really looked as if he was going to bite his subordinate.
"What the dickens d'you mean?" he shouted. "Joke, confounded fool, or what?"
"Thirst for knowledge, sir," Sexton Blake answered, with his most innocent, lamb-like air; "should try to obey orders."
The new man was entirely beyond Mr. Spearing, and he gave him up.
"Very well," he snapped, thinking that he would take a rise out of the man. You may arrest a dozen. Don't trouble about more—that should be enough."
Sexton Blake pulled out his official notebook, carefully entered the number suggested by Mr. Spearing, returned the book to his pocket, and left the office.
As soon as he was fairly out of the Yard, Sexton Blake took another cab, and ordered the man to drive to Liverpool Street, going by way of Fleet Street and the Strand. In the latter thoroughfare the detective stopped the cabby before a telegraph office, and despatched an unsigned wire to Tinker, instructing him to go to Liverpool Street station departure platforms. It was more than likely that the boy would be of great use.
Liverpool Street station was crowded at this particular time of the day, and Sexton Blake, as he made his way towards the departure platforms, carrying with him a second-hand portmanteau which he had purchased at a shop outside the station, decided that it would not be long before he was busy. In his bag he had placed some heavyish articles, including tinned milk and canned salmon, which he had bought haphazard, to make the bag a respectable weight.
For some short time, at least, Sexton Blake would have to work alone, it being impossible for Tinker to arrive for close upon another hour.
The eye of the detective is trained to pick out undesirables from a crowd, and it was not long before Sexton Blake had spotted three men who were undoubtedly at the station on business, and not as mere travellers. The only trouble the detective could see would be to make one of these men take his particular bag.
On all sides luggage was piled, sometimes in heaps, sometimes on trolleys, ready to be taken to the train, while here and there stood bags of all shapes and sizes.
Keeping pretty near to one of the men whom he had marked down as a bag-lifter, Sexton Blake carried his portmanteau through the crowd, bending sideways to draw attention to the fact that it was weighty. With a sigh of relief he placed it down near the entrance to the booking-office, and passed a handkerchief across his face, as if to wipe the perspiration away. The bag-lifter, a smallish man in a rather horsey check suit, had followed, unless he had come quite that way by chance.
Leaving his bag on the platform, Sexton Blake took a couple of steps towards the booking-office, hesitated, and went back, Evidently, any onlooker would have said, he did not care to leave his bag unguarded. The man in the check suit, leaning against a convenient wall, and apparently absorbed in the lighting of a cigarette, took great interest in the proceedings. Sexton Blake picked up his bag again, dropped it, as if it were too heavy, and entered the booking-office without it. He did not take a ticket, however, but, dodging round to the other entrance to the office, waited.
He had not long to wait. Carrying the bag, and looking almost too unconcerned, the man in the check suit passed the entrance. He glanced that way, but failed to spot Sexton Blake, who was practically hidden by a pile of luggage. It seemed to the detective that he was soon to start making his dozen arrests for Mr. Spearing. He might have taken the man then and there, and handed him over to a constable, but that might have alarmed other thieves in the vicinity, and that was the last thing that Sexton Blake desired.
Crossing one of the iron bridges, evidently with the intention of throwing any follower off the scent, the man in the check suit left the station by the high-level entrance, hailed a hansom, thrust the bag inside, and drove away.
As the cab left the kerb, Sexton Blake emerged from the shelter of a passage, did half a dozen steps at sprinting space, and swung himself on to the step below the driver. The man looked down angrily.
"'Oo are you?" he growled. "What d'yer want?"
"Keep quiet!" Sexton Blake commanded sternly. "I'm from the Yard. I sha'n't trouble you long; you can stop as soon as we find a constable outside."
For a couple of hundred yards the cabby, fully understanding the situation, drove, then pulled up beside the kerb, near to where a constable was standing. The trap of the cab was pushed up sharply.
"What are you stopping for, you fool?" an angry tone cried.
Sexton Blake mounted to the next step, and leant forward over the roof of the cab. His right hand went through the trap, and a yell broke from the man in the check suit as he felt his wrist gripped in a hold that there was no shaking. He proved that by a wrench that only nearly succeeded in dislocating his wrist.
"Oblige me by beckoning the constable," Sexton Blake said quietly to the cabby.
The constable, seeing that something unusual was happening, was already advancing majestically, and a few words of explanation settled the matter. Our friend of the check suit, minus the bag, marched off in company with the policeman, while Sexton Blake, stepping into the cab, drove back to Liverpool Street station.
As Sexton Blake entered the station, bag in hand, a small boy stepped out of the crowd.
"Carry your bag for you, sir?" he suggested, dragging at his ancient cap.
"Yes, keep beside me," the detective answered, handing over the bag.
And so Tinker and Sexton Blake passed into the station together, and made for almost the same spot where the detective had commenced operations. Now that Sexton Blake had Tinker with him, the work would be a great deal easier
Taking some coppers from his pocket, the detective handed them to the boy, as if in payment for the job.
"I am leaving the bag, Tinker," he said, in a low voice; go some distance away and watch it. If anyone picks it up, make sure of the direction they take, then come to me in the booking-office."
"Very good, sir."
It might seem to some that Sexton Blake was leaving a good deal to luck, but that really was not so. In the first case his unfailing instinct had helped him to spot one of the bag-lifters, and now, as he strolled away, he knew that two men of the same fraternity were not very far off. He wondered whether the two were working together, or if they were playing their own hands independently of one another. He was to know pretty soon.
Sexton Blake had not long to wait. Tinker walked quickly into the booking-office, and silently beckoned his chief.
"Gone up the stairs, on to that bridge, sir!" Tinker said quickly, pointing to one of the iron bridges running along overhead, which connected the high-level and low-level stations. "You'll catch him if you go up the other side. There's two of 'em, but one's stopped below."
Without waiting to hear more, Sexton Blake cut across the open space below the bridges. Above him he could see a man walking calmly along with his bag, and he reckoned that by hurrying up the next flight of steps leading to the bridge he would be just able to head him off. The man's confederate the detective could not see.
Along the bridge went the bag-lifter, up the steps went Sexton Blake. The man would be headed off; there was no doubt about it. On to the bridge stepped the detective, and the bag-lifter, no more than half a dozen yards away now, recognised the detective as the owner of the bag. Quick as a flash he turned, bag and arm were thrust over the side of the bridge, and the bag dropped into the arms of the confederate below, who caught it neatly and hurried of.
One glance Sexton Blake threw over the side of the bridge, saw that Tinker was on the track of the man with the bag, and sprang after his man. There was a thickish crowd on the bridge, and the bag-lifter, try though he would, could not get away. Sexton Blake's hand gripped him by the collar, swung him round, and almost before he knew what was happening, he was being trundled down the steps.
It was a pity; Sexton Blake had not wished to make any arrests in the station itself.
So quick had been Sexton Blake's action, that the confederate had not got more than fifty yards with the bag. The detective was sure of that, but had no way of telling in which direction he had gone. Even that he knew very soon.
From the left came a sudden commotion, and Sexton Blake, still gripping his prisoner, hurried in that direction. A small crowd had formed—with the speed that crowds will form with almost anywhere—and by the time that Sexton Blake had forced his way through it, a dusty and dishevelled individual, still gripping the stolen bag, scrambled to his feet. Tinker stood looking on with a grin.
"You tripped me!" the man shouted at the boy, forgetting all caution in his anger. "You young whelp, I'll——"
Before the man could say more, Sexton Blake had him by the collar, and at the same time winked to Tinker to make himself scarce.
With an oath, a startled expression on his face, the man dropped the bag and tried to shake himself free, only to find that he was perfectly helpless, and that a knee thrust forcibly into your back is inclined to be painful, and hard to struggle against.
This time it was the station-police who took the two men into their keeping, and so Sexton Blake's bag had risen to three.
Strolling away from the crowd, which very soon forget his existence, Sexton Blake crossed over to the farthest of the departure platforms, passed that, and stood idly by one of the arrival platforms. Near him, leaning forward over the barrier, was an elderly man, grey of hair and white of moustache, who seemed to be looking out for someone.
At this spot a road ran along one side of the platform, and a number of cabs were drawn up there, waiting for fares.
Suddenly the grey-haired man pulled himself upright, and walked slowly along beside the row cabs. He stopped by almost the last one, which was driven by a rather flashy looking driver, glanced round sharply, said something to him, and passed on.
Something in the man's manner aroused Sexton Blake's curiosity, and, following the man's example, he strolled along by the cabs,
The hoot of a whistle, a rush of steam, and one of the main-line trains drew up slowly at the platform. Out on to the platform swarmed the passengers, and at the same moment, as if their very lives depended upon speed, the porters began to bang the luggage out of the vans.
Hurrying up to the rapidly growing heap of luggage, and aping the excited traveller admirably, the man with the grey moustache pointed out two or three substantial looking trunks, motioning them to be carried to the cab near by, to the driver of which he had spoken. It was noticeable that the horse between the shafts was a better animal than is usually seen in such a place.
It was a curious thing that a man who had not come by the train Should be claiming luggage, have a cab waiting, and whisper instructions to the driver. It was so curious, indeed, that Sexton Blake, walking quietly up to where. the man was claiming the luggage, laid a hand gently, but firmly on his shoulder.
The man with the grey moustache seemed to grow smaller, his excited manner grew cringing, and as he looked up into the face of the detective, his own face was white.
"I—I beg your pardon," he stammered, making an effort to pull himself together. "May I ask what you want?"
"What do you want?" Sexton Blake answered quietly; and, glancing over his shoulder, saw that the waiting cab had vanished.
It was a pity, but the one man would have to be enough.
"I—I want my luggage," the grey moustached man said very hastily. "I will go and fetch a porter, and—er——"
The man male an effort to free himself from the hand on his shoulder, only to find that the fingers had got a firm grip Then he tried to bluster, but, unluckily for him, rather at the wrong moment.
An elderly lady came hurrying up, pointed out the identical boxes that the grey moustached man had been about to take, and ordered porters to carry them to a cab. That settled Sexton Blake, for it was all that he had been waiting for.
"Come on, my lad," he whispered quietly, at the same time deftly twitching off the false grey moustache, "I think I'll send you home."
"Home?" the prisoner gasped.
"The police-station," Sexton Blake explained,
"And now," Sexton Blake remarked inwardly, after he had handed over his fourth capture, "I do not seem to remember having had lunch."
During the remainder of the day Sexton Blake and Tinker found plenty to occupy their time, and it was not until fairly late in the evening that the detective returned to Scotland Yard.
Mr. Spearing was in his office, and looked up sharply as Sexton Blake entered. Complaints from. several stations had come in during the day, and, in consequence, he was not in the best of tempers.
"Failed, same as the other men—might have known it!" he snapped,
"Yes, sir," Sexton Blake answered, with great humility.
For once Mr. Spearing was really pleased that there had been a failure, as it gave him something to let off steam about.
"What's the Yard coming to? What are you paid for? Aren't there criminals enough to go round?" he jerked. "What d'you mean by failing? Told you to catch thieves, why——"
"I did, sir," Sexton Blake interjected.
Mr. Spearing, very red in the face, whacked his great fist down upon the table, hurt his knuckles, sucked them hurriedly, then tried to look composed.
"What d'you mean? Fail to understand," he said.
"You told me that I was to capture twelve of the bag-lifters and sharps of that kind, sir," Sexton Blake explained calmly; "but I only nabbed eleven. Very sorry, sir; I'll go back for another if you like."
Mr. Spearing dropped helplessly into his chair, grinned, hastily controlled himself, and looked solemn. For a moment he really had an idea that the new man was daring to joke, but a glance at Sexton Blake's face convinced him that it could not be the case. But eleven——
"Where are they, Brown?" he demanded sharply, but considerably more civilly.
Sexton Blake placed a list of the stations to which the prisoners had been taken before Mr. Spearing.
"Anything else, sir?" he asked quietly.
Once more Sexton Blake's eyes were turned upon the bill close to Mr. Spearing's head, the one offering a reward of five hundred pounds to the person or persons who found a certain Sexton Blake. Mr. Spearing followed the direction of the glance, rose to his feet, and paced excitedly up and down the floor. When he stopped, his mouth was set rather hard, and there was a determined light in his eyes.
"Brown," he said, "proved yourself smart man; rest at the Yard fools, or try to be. You shall help me find Sexton Blake."
Sexton Blake never smiled, but merely looked respectfully at his superior officer.
"Yes, sir," he answered; "well find Sexton Blake. About time, sir, isn't it?"
"What d'you mean?" Mr. Spearing snapped; "I have never really tried until now."
"Nothing, sir," Sexton Blake answered humbly.
To Find Himself—Pedro Fetched—Laying a
Trail—Is it Suicide?—What They Found.
NOW that Mr. Spearing had made up his mind to use the new man, he evidently meant to lose no time. He seated himself at his desk, and motioned Sexton Blake to take a seat opposite to him.
"Look here; Brown," he said, "I am very anxious to find this missing man."
"So it seems, sir," the detective agreed, coolly and calmly. "I am to find him, I believe. When shall I start, sir?"
"You will begin work on the case at once," Mr. Spearing answered——" to-night if you like, and will report to me the moment you discover anything. As soon as you are working on anything of a clue I shall come in and help you. I have reasons to wish to be in at the finish of this case."
"Special reasons, sir?" Sexton Blake asked innocently.
"Yes," Mr. Spearing "snapped, "special and private. You may go now; report when anything is found. Goodnight!"
Sexton Blake chuckled quietly as he left the Yard, and he had not finished chuckling when he drew near to Baker Street. He had come by a devious route, for he had no wish to be discovered so near the end of his prolonged joke, He turned up a side-street, watched to make sure that no one was near enough to observe him, then, under cover of the night, hopped over into the little garden at the back of his house.
Crossing the small, neglected patch, Sexton Blake forced the catch of a window with his knife, slipped in, and made his way quietly through the house, most of which was in darkness, until he came to his consulting-room. As he entered this apartment Tinker, who had been sitting dejectedly over a book, sprang up eagerly,
"Back, sir?" he cried. "Back to the old life?"
"Not yet, my lad," Sexton Blake answered, patting the boy kindly on the shoulder; "but I'm only Brown for a few days more. At the end of that time I shall have run down Sexton Blake."
"Have what, sir?"
The detective took a cigar from the box lying on the table, and which Tinker had kept there ready for the time when he came back, and smiled as he lit it.
"The fact is, my boy," he explained, "that friend Spearing has set me to catch myself."
For a moment Tinker did not grasp the situation, then he caught the idea, and fairly howled with laughter. Even Sexton Blake's smile grew broader, and he looked distinctly pleased with himself as he dropped into a chair.
"Oh, it's too good, sir," Tinker gurgled, "when are you going to succeed?"
"Not at all," Sexton Blake answered. "I'm going to have some more fun; then a friend of mine of the name of Sergeant Lightning will find me out. By the bye, have there been any urgent cases come in?"
"No, sir," Tinker answered, his mirth disappearing, and becoming business-like at once.
"And the Tadworth burglary?" Sexton Blake queried.
"Went down to Kingston two days ago, sir," Tinker answered; "the swag was dropped in the pond right enough. Hooked it with a line and fish-hook, but left it there, as you told me to."
"Good," Sexton Blake murmured. "No chance of the gang having fetched it yet?"
"Not the slightest, sir; they're keeping clear for a week or two, I nearly ran into a man from the Yard as I was leaving the pond."
Sexton Blake finished his cigar with an air of great content, then strolled to the window by which he had entered.
"Tinker," he said quietly, as he sat with one leg dangling out, "don't be surprised at anything that happens tomorrow. I begin hunting for myself then. Just hand me out a pair of my old shoes."
Rather less than an hour later Sexton Blake passed the Mainly Street police-station in a hansom, and drove on to the house where he had left Pedro. Luckily he found the owner in, was welcomed cordially by him, and made quite at home. Pedro had had every attention, and was as much at home as he had been at Baker Street. Nevertheless, he was pleased to see Sexton Blake.
After stopping a short time, and explaining ingeniously why it was that he had asked that the dog be left at the house for a short time, Sexton Blake departed with Pedro, and tramped it back to Baker Street. For the second time he reached the house from the back, chained the great dog to his kennel, slipped out of the garden again, after putting on the shoes that Tinker had supplied him with, and passed round to the front.
On the way back to Baker Street, Sexton Blake had purchased a small quantity of creosote, which probably possesses the most holding scent of any stuff in existence. He now, just before turning into Baker Street, dabbed a little of this on the soles of his boots.
The hour was late, but Sexton Blake was fresh enough.
Walking steadily, and keeping to roads along which there would not be much traffic even in the daytime, he set off in the direction of Putney, and kept on steadily towards Kingston. Here again he kept to the side-streets, passed a number of houses standing in their own grounds, climbed over a fence, walked across a field, and straight to the edge of a small pond. Fifty yards away the lights of a large house glimmered. This was the home of Sir John Tadworth, which had been burgled some short time before, the thieves and their booty still being undiscovered.
Stopping by the edge of the pond, Sexton Blake slipped off the shoes, threw them into the river, and resumed his regulation boots, which he had brought with him. Then he returned to the town, knocked up the proprietor of an hotel, gained admittance after some trouble, turned into bed, and went quietly to sleep.
By the first train in the morning, after making a good breakfast, Sexton Blake returned to town, and went straight to Scotland Yard. Mr. Spearing received him at once, an eager look in his little eyes.
"Any success, Brown?" he asked eagerly. Too early yet. No clues, I suppose?"
"Don't know, sir," Sexton Blake answered, with the air of a man who is hopeful, but does not wish to appear too certain of success.
"Out with it, my man!" Mr. Spearing cried excitedly. "Remember the reward!"
"I believe Sexton Blake has been back to his house, sir," Sexton Blake answered. "If so, we can get him."
"But how?" Mr. Spearing gasped.
"His dog Pedro is there," the detective explained, "and it's more than likely that he will track his master down."
Mr. Spearing rose excitedly to his feet, and paced up and down the room.
"It's a chance," he said, trying not to show his excitement— "only a chance. We'll start now."
"Very good, sir," Sexton Blake agreed quietly.
He was very pleased with himself. Already he had proved to Mr. Spearing that he was not infallible, and now he was going to prove other things to him, besides providing a little surprise or two at the same time.
By the aid of a fast hansom, it was not long before Baker Street was reached, and Mr. Spearing boldly knocked at the door. It was opened by Tinker, who showed not the slightest recognition of his master, and stared innocently at Mr. Spearing.
"You remember me, my boy?" the latter asked sharply.
"Yes, sir. You came to the master to help you sometimes," Tinker answered innocently. And behind his mask of indifference Sexton Blake chuckled hugely.
Mr. Spearing looked mad, but he controlled himself by a visible effort.
"Quite so; quite so," he snapped. "We want the dog, Pedro, for a bit. Your master would let me have him—no doubt of it; nice fellow—if he were here."
Sexton Blake winked to Tinker, and the latter took the hint.
"Certainly, sir," he agreed. "I'll fetch him."
"Boy's a fool," Mr. Spearing muttered, as Tinker went to fetch the dog, "but must humour him. Matter of business, Brown."
"Certainly, sir," Sexton Blake murmured.
Tinker had Pedro well in hand when he brought him out, and the detective, bending over him, whispered a word or two that kept him quiet. Then, holding him by the lead, he took him to the steps.
"Sure to follow his master's track before any other, sir," he explained.
The scent of the creosote had lasted, there was no doubt about that, for Pedro only sniffed once before tugging at the lead. Mr. Spearing fairly beamed.
"Ready, sir?" Sexton Blake asked.
"Yes."
Pedro made no faults at the start, but jogged along at a good round pace, his muzzle close to the ground, business in every line of his body. He had struck the scent of the creosote, as Sexton Blake had foreseen, and now he was following it up unfalteringly.
Down road after road the dog led the way, following the track that Sexton Blake had made. on the previous night, and the detective let him go at a good pace.
"Easy; infernally hot; not in good training!" Mr. Spearing panted, after a matter of six miles had been covered. "Scent must be strong. Ease down!"
Sexton Blake did ease down, and still Pedro kept on until he reached Putney. Here he was at fault for a brief space, for thousands of feet had crossed the detective's track; but, naturally enough, the latter was able to get him on the scent again, and at last Kingston was reached. Here Mr. Spearing, who was simply bathed in perspiration, called a halt, and he certainly needed it.
On again, keeping to the quiet roads, past the large houses, to the field into which Sexton Blake had clambered the night before. The detective, as if by accident, now released the dug. Over the fence he leapt, and, with his muzzle close to the turf, galloped straight to the edge of the pond. There he stopped, lifted his great head, and bayed mournfully.
Over the fence went Sexton Blake, and after him went Mr. Spearing. At the edge of the pond they both stopped, looking at each other meaningly.
"Poor fellow!" Mr. Spearing said, in a low voice. "Failed over a case, I suppose—cut up—decided to end it in this way."
"Poor chap!" Sexton Blake murmured; and turned h is head away.
"We must send for the drags," Mr. Spearing said sharply, shaking his great shoulders. "Nothing else for it. Make sure he's here. Will you go to the station? They keep the things there. Bring a couple of men back with you."
Rather less than half an hour later Sexton Blake was back with two of the Kingston constables and the drag. In silence all necessary preparations were made, and the men set to work. Pedro bayed from time to time, and the sound seemed to get on Mr. Spearing's nerves.
In a matter-of-fact way, for such things came their way fairly frequently, the local police set to work with the drags, using them in a way which showed that they knew their business. From one side of the pond to the other they worked, but at first with no success.
The drags caught something, and Mr. Spearing shuddered. Slowly a dark object showed above the water as it was dragged nearer to the land, and Mr. Spearing uttered a great sigh of relief as he saw that it was only a sack.
"Better see what's in it, sir," Sexton Blake suggested; and cut the cord round the mouth of the sack. Then he tipped it up, and a shower of plate, jewel-cases, and other valuables fell on to the grass.
With a cry of amazement Mr. Spearing dropped on his knees, and fairly snatched up one article after another.
"The Tadworth swag!" he cried.
"Then we are not wrong, sir," Sexton Blake said meaningly.
Mr. Spearing stared at the detective, caught his idea, and smiled hastily.
"You have done your work very well, my men," he said, turning to the two constables. "Put the things back in the sack, and I will see you take it safely to the station."
Mr. Spearing tried to look contented on the way to the Kingston police-station, where he handed over the stolen property; but he was not entirely successful. The moment he was outside the station he turned again to Sexton Blake.
"What do we do now?" he asked. "We fluked that find, but how about Blake?"
"Take the train back to town, sir," Sexton Blake answered promptly. "What else can we do?"
"No; quite right, only thing to be done," Mr. Spearing agreed. "And after that? The next move?"
"We shall find this Sexton Blake tomorrow."
Mr. Spearing was surprised, and, naturally enough, asked questions. The answers were altogether unsatisfactory, however, and he began to wonder once more whether this Constable Brown was a fool or not.
Sergeant Lightning Again—The Finding of Sexton
Blake—Mr. Spearing Angry—He Sees Reason—The End.
SERGEANT LIGHTNING was making a substantial breakfast, in the bosom of his family, when Master Bobby Lightning admitted Sexton Blake. choking himself with a piece of bacon, the sergeant welcomed the visitor heartily.
"Sit down," he wheezed. "Humble fare—the fare of a humble sergeant. Bobby shall have better some day, when 'e's in the 'am and beef line."
"You are on the track of this Sexton Blake, then?" the detective suggested innocently, dropping into a chair at the table. He had not had breakfast, and was not sorry that the sergeant had invited him to the meal.
Sergeant Lightning laid down his knife and fork, sighed deeply, then mechanically began to eat again.
"It's my experience an' your—er—acumen what'll do it," he said, with his mouth full. "S'pose you ain't got the time now that you're up at the Yard? Such is life, full o' disappointments and what-nots, an' no 'am an' beef shops. Leastways, they ain't in our family."
"Sexton Blake kept on quietly with his meal before saying more. When he had finished he turned again to the sergeant.
"Look here, Lightning," he said, "suppose I tell you that you have frequently spoken to Sexton Blake since he disappeared?"
"Shouldn't believe you, old man," Sergeant Lightning answered, with a knowing shake of his head. "You're a cute one, but you'd 'ave nabbed him if you'd 'ave known that."
"And suppose I didn't want to nab him, what then?"
Sergeant Lightning again shook his head, and carefully filled a pipe. He was not due to go on duty for another half-hour.
"Five 'undred quids is five 'undred quids," he announced sagely. "Ere am I, going out on me pension in a couple of weeks, an' with them five 'undred quids—aforementioned—I'd——". The sergeant stopped, the dream was too beautiful to be talked about.
"Then get them," Sexton Blake said quietly.
"You ain't got the time to 'elp," Sergeant Lightning answered, but with a gleam of hope in his eyes.
Without another word Sexton Blake peeled off his false moustache.
Sergeant Lightning scrambled to his feet, upsetting a chair and turning over his cup.
"It's 'im!" he yelled. "Sexton Blake! "
"At your service, my friend," the detective murmured.
In a state of utter collapse, the sergeant sank into his chair. Then he drew a shilling from his pocket and presented it to Master Bobby.
"Bobby," he said, with great distinctness, "your dad ain't eggsactly a millionaire, but 'e's a-comin' on. Spend that, an' let the neighbourhood know as 'ow I give it you. "And now, sir," the sergeant -continued, addressing Sexton Blake, "what made you do it?" Sexton Blake shrugged his shoulders, and took up his hat.
"Lightning," he said quietly, "there are some things that it is unwise to ask——"
"So long as I get the five 'undred quids, sir," Sergeant Lightning wheezed, "I don't care a—er—'am-bone why you did it."
"Good. Now listen to what you must do. Go to the station, and obtain leave for the morning. Say, if you like, that you have a clue to the whereabouts of Sexton Blake. Then come to the Yard and ask for Mr. Spearing. I shall be in his office. You will know what to do then."
"Bet on it, sir," the sergeant agreed, with a knowing wink.
Having walked with Sergeant Lightning to the station, and learnt that his leave was granted, Sexton Blake set out for the Yard, having told the sergeant to follow in a quarter of an hour. Mr. Spearing had left instructions that Constable Brown was to be sent in to him the moment he arrived, so Sexton Blake entered the office.
"Sit down," Mr. Spearing said sharply, "I want to talk to you—most important."
"Yes, sir."
"Yesterday we found the stuff stolen from Tadworth's," Mr. Spearing continued. "A fluke, I admit, but we needn't talk about that."
"Certainly not, sir," Sexton Blake agreed, smiling as he thought how very much the find had not been a fluke.
"Now look here, Brown, this Sexton Blake must be found, and——"
"Find him this morning, sir," Sexton Blake interrupted coolly.
Mr. Spearing lost his temper, and banged his desk with all his might.
"Don't fool, man!" he snapped. "Most important business; no joking matter. What the blazes d'you mean about finding him this morning?"
Sexton Blake, with a distinctly bored air, drew out his watch and consulted it.
"In another ten minutes, at the most," he answered, "you will have found Sexton Blake, or, to be more precise, he will be found for you."
Mr. Spearing leapt to his feet and laid a heavy hand on Sexton Blake's shoulder,
"Out with it!" he said sternly. "Where is he? Don't fool!"
"I know where he is."
"Where is he?" Mr. Spearing fairly shouted again.
For the second time Sexton Blake consulted his watch.
"Not more than seven minutes now," he murmured.
Mr. Spearing, realising that he was only playing a losing game, controlled his temper by an effort, and reseated himself.
"Very well," he said, suppressed anger in his voice, "but if you're foolin', Brown, you won't hear the last of this for some time."
"Thank you, sir," Sexton Blake answered mechanically.
"Mr. Spearing fidgeted with his papers, looked at his watch, stared at his new man. The latter, quite unconcerned, leant against the wall, his eyes half closed. Eight minutes passed, and Sexton Blake glanced at his watch.
"Bah," Mr. Spearing snapped, "you haven't——"
"Sergeant Lightning wants to see you, sir," a constable announced from the doorway.
"Can't see him," Mr. Spearing said sharply. "Too busy. Leave any report that he's got, attend to it in due course."
"I should see him, sir," Sexton Blake suggested, in a low voice.
"I shall not!" Mr. Spearing roared, fairly out of temper now.
"Very well; sir, you won't learn where Sexton Blake is."
Mr. Spearing bent forward excitedly over his desk.
"This man knows?"
"Yes."
"Show Sergeant Lightning in," Mr. Spearing said quickly.
A few seconds later Sergeant Lightning, adorned in his state suit of blue, came skating in, and stood respectfully by the door, hat in hand.
"Mornin', sir," he wheezed, "I hope the cold winds ain't—"
"Your business?" Mr. Spearing demanded.
Sergeant Lightning turned his fishy eyes towards the reward bill, and winked at it.
"This Sexton Blake," he answered. "I've found him."
"And can lay hands on him?" Mr. Spearing's voice was shaking with excitement.
"Yes, sir."
"Then where is he?"
"A-lookin' at you, sir," the sergeant answered, with a broad grin.
Mr. Spearing stared round wildly, but his eyes stopped roaming as Sexton Blake quietly peeled off his false moustache. First he went very red, then very white.
"You?" he cried huskily.
"Very much at your service—as of old," Sexton Blake agreed, in his natural voice.
Mr. Spearing was wild. He had been done, and done badly, and all he thought of was revenge.
"You shall pay for this!" he roared. "You're in the force now, and Ill make you—"
"Stop," Sexton Blake interrupted sternly, "and don't make a fool of yourself. Send the sergeant out of the room; I wish to talk to you."
Mr. Spearing opened his mouth to give vent to his anger again, realised that he was making a fool of himself, as Sexton Blake had said, and motioned Sergeant Lightning to leave the room.
"And now?" he said sharply, turning to the detective. "Extraordinary conduct—don't understand it. Explain!"
"A few words will suffice," Sexton Blake answered, seating himself comfortably in a chair. "You boasted to me, Mr. Spearing, that you could do without my help, also that you could find any man in London. it was a kind of challenge. I accepted your challenge, and I have won. It seems to me, too, that I have put in some good work for the force."
"May I ask if you intend to make it warm for me, and so compel me to state publicly why all this has happened, or will you help me to go quietly out of the force—ill-health will do—as quietly as I came into it?"
Mr. Spearing realised that he was cornered, and could do nothing. If the story of his boast came out, and how Sexton Blake had fooled him, he would be the laughing-stock of the force.
"I will help you, and do nothing," he said sullenly.
Sexton Blake rose, and held out his hand.
"Look here, Spearing," he said quietly, "I owe you no ill-will, and there's no reason you should bear me any. If there should be any little thing in the future that you would like my opinion about, don't fail to look me up."
For a moment more Mr. Spearing looked sullen, then his face cleared, and he heartily gripped the detective's hand.
"Sexton Blake," he said enthusiastically, "you're a man right through. I'll see that you share the credit with us the next time."
SO began and ended Sexton Blake's triumphal sojourn in the police-force, for Mr. Spearing kept his word and helped the detective to leave the force. As for Sergeant Lightning, he retired two weeks later on his pension, added to which was the reward for finding Sexton Blake, and when last heard of he was flourishing in the ham and beef line, working the business until the youthful Bobby should be old enough to take it into his hands. Sexton Blake called on him more than once, and the ex-sergeant's last remark to him on each occasion was:
"Should you need a man of experience to 'elp you an' your natural—er—acumen, remember as I'm ready an' willin', even if I 'ave left the force."
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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