AMBER GOES TO SCOTLAND YARD
Peter Musk had the entire top floor of 19, Redcow Court, and was
accounted an ideal tenant by his landlord, for he paid his rent
regularly. Of the three rooms, Peter occupied one, Amber (“My nephew
from the country,” said Peter elaborately) the other, and the third was
Peter’s “common room.”
Peter had reached the most exciting chapter in the variegated career of
“Handsome Hike, the Terror of Texas,” when Amber came in.
He came in hurriedly, and delivered a breathless little chuckle as he
closed the door behind him.
Peter looked up over his spectacles, and dropped his romance to his
lap. “In trouble?” he demanded eagerly, and when Amber shook his head
with a smile, a disappointed frown gathered on the old man’s face.
“No, my Peter,” said Amber, hanging up his hat, “I am not in
trouble--to any extent.” He took from his pocket two flat packages and
laid them on the table carefully. They were wrapped in newspaper and
contained articles of some heavy substance. Amber walked over to the
mantelshelf, where an oil lamp burnt, and examined his coat with minute
interest.
“What’s up, Amber? What are you looking for?”
“Blood, my Peter,” said Amber; “gore--human gore. I was obliged to
strike a gentleman hard, with a knobby weapon--to wit, a fist.”
“Hey?” Peter was on his feet, all eagerness, but Amber was still
smiling.
“Go on with your reading,” he said, “there’s nothing doin’.”
That was a direct and a sharp speech for Amber, and Peter stared, and
only the smile saved it from brusqueness.
Amber continued his inspection, removing his coat, and scrutinizing the
garment carefully.
“No incriminating stains,” he retorted flippantly, and went to the
table, where his packages lay. He had resumed his coat, and, diving
into one of the pockets, he produced a flat round leather case. He
pressed a spring, and the cover opened like the face of a watch.
Peter was an interested spectator. “That is a compass,” he said.
“True, my Peter; it is a compass--but it has the disadvantage that
it does not cump: in other words, it is a most unblushing liar of a
compass; a mis-leader of men, my Peter; it is the old one who is the
devil of compasses, because it leadeth the feet to stray--in other
words, it’s a dud.”
He shook it a little, gave it a twist or two, and shook his head
severely. He closed it and put it on the table by his side. Then he
turned his attention to the other packages. Very gingerly he unwrapped
them. They were revealed as two flat plates of steel, strangely
engraved. He leant over them, his smile growing broader and broader,
till he broke into a gleeful little laugh.
He looked up to meet the troubled and puzzled eyes of Peter, and
laughed out loud.
“Amber, there’s a game on,” said Peter gloomily; “there’s a dodge on,
and I’m not in it. Me that has been with you in every dodge you’ve
worked.”
This was not exactly true, but it pleased Peter to believe that he had
some part in Amber’s many nefarious schemes.
“It’s a Dodge _and_ a Game, my Peter,” said Amber, carefully wrapping
up the plates. “It’s this much of a game, that if the police suddenly
appeared and found these in my possession I should go down to the tombs
for seven long bright years, and you for no less a period.”
It may have been an effect of the bad lighting of the room, but it
seemed that Peter, the desperate criminal, went a little pale at the
prospect so crudely outlined.
“That’s a bit dangerous, ain’t it?” he said uncomfortably. “Takin’
risks of that kind, Amber,--what is it?”
“Forgery,” said the calm Amber, “forgery of Bank of England notes.”
“Good gaw,” gasped Peter, and clutched the edge of the table for
support.
“I was thinkin’ the same,” said Amber, and rose. “I am going to take
these precious articles of virtue and bigotry to a safe place,” he said.
“Where?--be careful, ol’ man--don’t get yourself into trouble, an’
don’t get me into trouble--after me keepin’ clear of prison all these
years,--chuck ’em into the river; borrer a boat down by Waterloo.”
He gave his advice in hoarse whispers as Amber left the room, with a
little nod, and continued it over the crazy balustrades, as Amber went
lightly down the stairs.
He turned into the Borough, and walked quickly in the direction of
London Bridge. He passed a policeman, who, as bad luck would have it,
knew him, and the man looked at him hard, then beckoned him.
Amber desired many things, but the one thing in the world that he did
not wish was an interview with an inquisitorial policeman. To pass on,
pretending not to have noticed the summons, would annoy the man, so
Amber stopped, with his most winning smile.
“Well, Mr. Amber,” bantered the constable, “I see you’re out--going
straight now?”
“So straight, my constable,” said Amber earnestly, “that you could use
my blameless path as a T square.” He observed the quick, professional
“look over” the man gave him. The plates were showing out of his pocket
he knew, and the next remark might easily be a request for information
regarding the contents of the flat package. His eye roved for a means
of escape, and a slow-moving taxi-cab attracted him. He raised his hand
and whistled.
“Doin’ the heavy now, are you?” asked the constable disapprovingly.
“In a sense I am,” said Amber, and without moving he addressed the
chauffeur, who had brought his machine to the kerb.
“I want you to take me to New Scotland Yard,” he said; then addressing
the policeman, he asked, “Do you think Chief Inspector Fell will be on
duty?”
“Inspector Fell”--there was a note of respect in the constable’s
voice--“I couldn’t say, we don’t know very much about the Yard
people--what are you going to see him about?”
“I am afraid I cannot appease your curiosity, my officer,” said Amber
as he stepped into the cab, “but I will inform the chief inspector that
you were anxious to know.”
“Here, Amber, none of that!” said the alarmed policeman, stepping to
the edge of the pavement, and laying his hand upon the door. “You’re
not going to say that?”
“Not a bit,” Amber grinned, “my little joke; honour amongst policemen,
eh?”
The cab made a wide circle, and Amber, looking back through the little
back window, saw the policeman standing in that indefinable attitude
which expresses doubt and suspicion.
It was a close shave, and Amber breathed a sigh of relief as the danger
slipped past. He had ten minutes to decide upon his plan. Being more
than ordinary nimble of wit, his scheme was complete before the cab ran
smoothly over Westminster Bridge and turned into New Scotland Yard.
There was an inspector behind a desk, who looked up from a report he
was writing.
“I want to see Mr. Fell,” said Amber.
“Name?”
“Amber.”
“Seem to know it,--what is the business?”
For answer, Amber laid one hand on the polished counter that separated
him from the officer, and placed two fingers diagonally across it.
The inspector grunted affirmatively and reached for the telephone.
“An outside--to see Mr. Fell.... Yes.” He hung up the receiver.
“Forty-seven,” he said; “you know your way up.”
It happened that Amber did not possess this knowledge, but he
found no difficulty in discovering number forty-seven, which was a
reception-room.
He had a few minutes to wait before a messenger came for him and showed
him into a plainly furnished office.
Very little introduction is needed to Josiah Fell, who has figured
in every great criminal case during the past twenty years. A short,
thickset man, bald of forehead, with a pointed brown beard. His
nose was short and retroussé, his forehead was bald, the flesh about
his mild blue eyes was wrinkled and creased by much laughter. He was
less like the detective of fiction than the unknowledgable would dare
imagine.
“Amber, by heavens!” said the detective. He had a habit of using strong
and unnecessary language.
“Amber, my boy, come in and firmey la porte. Well----?”
He unlocked a drawer and produced a box of cigars. He was always glad
to meet his “clients,” and Amber was an especial favourite of his.
Though, when he came to think about the matter, he had not met Amber
professionally.
“You’ll have a cigar?”
“What’s wrong with ’em?” asked Amber, cautiously selecting one.
“Nothing much,” and as Amber lit the cheroot he had taken--“What do
you want? Confession, fresh start in life--oh! of course, you’ve got
somebody to put away; they telephoned up that you were doing outside
work.”
Amber shook his head.
“I told ’em that because I knew that would get me an interview without
fuss,--an old convict I met in prison gave me the sign.”
He took the packages from his pocket and laid them on the table.
“For me?” queried the officer.
“For you, my Hawkshaw,” said Amber.
The detective stripped the paper away, and uttered an exclamation as
he saw what the parcels contained.
“Gee--Moses!” He whistled long and softly. “Not your work, Amber?
Hardly in your line, eh?”
“Hardly.”
“Where did you get them?” Fell looked up quickly as he asked the
question.
“That’s the one thing I’m not going to tell you,” said Amber quietly,
“but if you want to know how I got them, I burgled an office and found
them in a safe.”
“When?”
“To-night.”
The inspector pressed a bell and a policeman came into the room.
“Send an all station message: In the event of an office burglary being
reported, keep the complainant under observation.”
The man scribbled the message down and left.
“I send that in case you won’t alter your mind about giving me the
information I want.”
“I’m not likely to tell you,” said Amber decisively. “In the first
place, it won’t help you much to know where they came from, unless you
can find the factory.” The inspector nodded. “When a gang can do work
like this, they usually possess more than ordinary resources. If you
went for them you’d only bite off a bit of the tail, but the rest of
the body would go to earth quicker than money melts.”
“I could put them under observation----” began the inspector.
“Pouf!” said Amber scornfully, “pouf, my inspector! Observation be
blowed! They’d twig the observer in two shakes; they’d recognize his
boots, and his moustache, and his shaven chin. I know your observers. I
can pick ’em out in a crowd. No, that’s not my idea.” Amber hesitated,
and appeared to be a little ill at ease.
“Go on, have another cigar, that will help you,” encouraged Fell, and
opened the box.
“I thank you, but no,” said Amber firmly. “I can talk without any such
drastic inducement. What I want to say is this; you know my record?”
“I do,” said Fell; “or I think I do, which amounts to the same thing.”
“My Chief Inspector,” said Amber with some severity, “I beg you to
apply your great intellect to a matter which concerns me, as it
concerns you. A flippant and a careless interest in the problem I am
putting forward may very well choke the faucet of frankness which at
present is turning none too easily. In other words, I am embarrassed.”
He was silent for awhile; then he got up from the other side of Fell’s
desk, where he had sat at the detective’s invitation, and began to pace
the room.
“It’s common talk throughout the prisons of England that there is a
gang, a real swell gang, putting bank-notes into circulation--not only
English but foreign notes,” he began.
“It is also common talk in less exclusive circles, Amber, my dear lad,”
said Fell dryly; “we want that gang badly.” He picked up a plate, and
held it under the light. “This looks good, but until we ‘pull’ it I
cannot tell how good.”
“Suppose”--Amber leant over the table and spoke earnestly--“suppose it
is the work of the big gang,--suppose I can track ’em down----”
“Well?”
“Would you find me a billet at the Yard?”
They looked at each other for a space of time, then the lines about
the inspector’s eyes creased and puckered, and he burst into a roar of
laughter.
“My Chief Detective Inspector,” said Amber reproachfully, “you hurt me.”
But Amber’s plaintive protest did not restore the detective’s gravity.
He laughed until the tears streamed down his face, and Amber watched
him keenly.
“Oh dear!” gasped the detective, wiping his eyes. “You’re an amusing
devil--here.” He got up, took a bunch of bright keys from his pocket
and opened a cupboard in the wall. From a drawer he took a sheet of
foolscap paper, laid it on his desk and sat down.
“Your convictions!” he scoffed.
The paper was ruled exactly down the centre. On the left--to which the
detective pointed, were two entries. On the right there was line after
line of cramped writing.
“Your imprisonments,” said the detective.
Amber said nothing, only he scratched his chin thoughtfully.
“By my reckoning,” the detective went on slowly, “you have been
sentenced in your short but lurid career to some eighty years’ penal
servitude.”
“It seems a lot,” said Amber.
“It does,” said the detective, and folded the paper. “So when you come
to me and suggest that you would like to turn over a new leaf; would
like, in fact, to join the criminal investigation department, I smile.
You’ve pulled my leg once, but never again. Seriously, Amber,” he went
on, lowering his voice, “can you do anything for us in this forgery
business?--the Chief is getting very jumpy about the matter.”
Amber nodded.
“I think I can,” he said, “if I can only keep out of prison for another
week.”
“Try,” said Fell, with a smile.
“I’ll try,” said Amber cheerfully.