AMBER RUNS AWAY
“I wish you would let me come with you,” begged the young man, but
Amber shook his head.
“You stay here,” he said.
He was dressed in a thick motor coat and a tweed cap was pulled down
over his forehead. The girl had made him some tea and prepared a little
meal for him.
He looked at his watch.
“One o’clock,” he said, “and here’s the car.”
The soft hum of a motor-car as it swung in a circle before the door of
the house came to them.
“I’m afraid I’m late, sir.” It was the constable, who lifted his cycle
from the tonneau as he spoke. “But I had some difficulty in collecting
the people together, and my report at the station took me longer than I
thought. We have wired to headquarters, and the main roads leading into
London are being watched.”
“It will probably be too late,” replied Amber, “though they could
hardly do the journey under an hour and a half.”
He took a brief farewell of the girl and jumped into the car by the
side of the driver. In a few minutes he was being whirled along the
Maidstone Road.
“It is a nearer way,” explained the driver, “we get on the main road.
To reach London through Rochester means a bad road all the way, and a
long journey.”
The car was a fast one and the journey lacked interest. It was not
until they reached the outskirts of London that their progress was
checked.
Turning into the Lewisham High Road, a red lamp was waved before them
and they pulled up to discover two policemen. Amber had no difficulty
in establishing his identity. Had anything been seen of the other car?
“No, sir,” said the sergeant; “though a car with four men passed
through the Blackwall Tunnel at half-past twelve--before the special
police had arrived to watch it. Our people believed from the
description you sent that this was the party you are looking for.”
Amber had taken a chance when he had circulated a faithful description
of Whitey.
He thanked the sergeant and the car moved towards London. He had taken
the precaution of locating Lambaire and Whitey, and at half-past three
the car stopped at the end of the street in which the latter’s hotel
was situated.
“You will find a coffee-stall at the end of Northumberland Avenue,”
he said. “Get yourself some food and be back here in a quarter of an
hour.”
The street was empty and the hotel as silent as the grave. There had
been no rain in London that night nor on the previous day, and the
pavement was quite dry. Amber stood for a while before he rang the
night bell, and with his little lamp examined the hearthstoned steps
that led to the door.
There was no mark to indicate the recent arrival of one who had been
walking in clay.
He pushed the button and to his surprise the door was almost
immediately opened.
The night porter, usually the most lethargic of individuals, was alert
and wakeful.
Evidently it was not Amber he was expecting, for he suddenly barred the
opening.
“Yes, sir?” he queried sharply.
“I want a room for the night,” said Amber. “I’ve just arrived from the
Continent.”
“You’re late, sir,” said the man suspiciously; “the Continental was in
on time at eleven.”
“Oh, I came by way of Newhaven,” responded Amber carelessly. He trusted
to the porter’s ignorance of this unfamiliar route.
“I don’t know whether we’ve got a room,” said the man slowly. “Any
baggage?”
“I’ve left it at the station.”
Amber put his hand into his breast pocket and took out a flat wad of
bank-notes. He detached one and handed it to the man.
“Don’t keep me talking all night, my good chap,” he said
good-humouredly. “Take this fiver on account and deduct a sovereign for
the trouble I have given you.”
The man’s attitude of hostility changed.
“You quite understand, sir,” he said as he led the way up the somewhat
narrow stairs, “that I have to be----”
“Oh, quite,” interrupted Amber. “Where are you going to put me--second
floor?”
“The second floor is engaged, sir,” said the porter. “In fact, I was
expecting the gentleman and his friend at the moment you rang.”
“Late bird, eh?” said Amber.
“He’s been in once to-night--about an hour ago--he had to go out again
on business.”
On the third floor Amber was shown the large front room to his entire
satisfaction--for the fact that such a room was available told him that
he had the entire floor to himself.
The porter lit the fire which was laid in the grate.
“Is there anything else you want, sir?”
“Nothing, thank you.”
Amber followed the man to the landing and stood there as he descended.
The porter stopped half-way down, arrested by the visitor’s irresolute
attitude.
“You are sure there is nothing I can do for you, sir--cup of tea or
anything?”
“Nothing, thank you,” said Amber, slowly removing his coat.
A little puzzled, the man descended.
Amber wanted something very badly, but he did not tell the man. He
wanted to know whether the stairs creaked, and was gratified to find
that they did not.
He waited a while till he heard the slippered feet shuffling on the
paved hall below.
There was no time to be lost. He kicked off his shoes and noiselessly
descended to the second floor.
There were three rooms which he judged communicated. One of these was
locked. He entered the other two in turn. The first was a conventional
sitting-room and opened through folding doors to a small bedroom.
From the appearance of the shaving apparatus on the dressing-table and
the articles of dress hanging in the wardrobe, he gathered that this
was Whitey’s bedroom. There was a door leading to the front room, but
this was locked.
He crept out to the landing and listened.
There was no sound save a far-away whistling which told of the porter’s
presence in some remote part of the building--probably in the basement.
To open the front door which led to the landing might mean detection;
he resolved to try the door between the two rooms.
There was a key in the lock, the end of it projected an eighth of an
inch beyond the lock on the bedroom side.
Amber took from his coat pocket a flat wallet and opened it. It was
filled with little tools. He selected a powerful pair of pliers and
gripped the end of the key. They were curious shaped pliers, for their
grip ran at right angles to their handles. The effect was to afford an
extraordinary leverage.
He turned the key cautiously.
Snap!
The door was unlocked.
Again he made a journey to the landing and listened. There was no sound.
He gathered his tools together, opened the door, and stepped into the
room. It had originally been a bedroom. He gathered as much from the
two old-fashioned bed-pulls which hung on one wall. There was a big
table in the centre of the room, and a newspaper or two. He looked at
the dates and smiled--they were two days old. Whitey had not occupied
that room the two days previous. Amber knew him to be an inveterate
newspaper reader. There were half a dozen letters and he examined the
post-marks--these too supported his view, for three had been delivered
by the last post two nights before.
A hasty examination of the room failed to discover any evidence that
the stolen papers had been deposited there. He slipped his hand between
bed and mattress, looked through contents of a despatch box, which
strangely enough had been left unlocked.
Though the room was comfortably furnished, there were few places where
the papers could be concealed.
Whitey must have them with him. Amber had hardly hoped to discover
them with such little trouble. He had turned back the corner of the
hearthrug before the fireplace, and was on the point of examining a
pile of old newspapers which stood on a chair in the corner of the
room, when he heard footsteps in the street without.
They were coming down the street--now they had stopped before the
hotel. He heard the far-off tinkle of a bell and was out of the room in
a second. He did not attempt to lock the door behind him, contenting
himself with fastening it.
There were low voices in the hall below, and interchange of speech
between the porter and the new arrivals, and Amber nimbly mounted to
the floor above as he heard footsteps ascending.
It was Whitey and Lambaire. He heard the sibilant whisper of the one
and the growl of the other.
Whitey unlocked the landing door and passed in, followed by Lambaire.
Amber heard the snick of the lock as Whitey fastened it behind him.
He heard all this from the upper landing, then when silence reigned
again he descended.
Noiselessly he opened the bedroom door, closing it again behind him.
The communicating door was of the conventional matchwood variety, and
there was no difficulty, though the two men spoke in low tones, in
hearing what they said.
Whitey was talking.
“... it surprised me ... old man ... thought he was dead....” and
he heard the rumble of Lambaire’s expression of astonishment. “...
providential ... seeing him in the garden ... scared to death....”
Amber crouched closer to the door. It took him some time before he
trained his ear to catch every word, and luckily during that time they
talked of things which were of no urgent importance.
“And now,” said Whitey’s voice, “we’ve got to get busy.”
“Coals is in no danger?” asked Lambaire.
“No--little wound in the leg ... that swine Amber....”
Amber grinned in the darkness.
“Here is the prospectus they were drawing up.”
The listener heard the crackling of paper and then a long silence. The
men were evidently reading together.
“M--m!” It was Lambaire’s grunt of satisfaction he heard. “I think this
is all we want to know--we must get this copied at once. There won’t be
much difficulty in placing the mine ... oh, this is the map....”
There was another long pause.
Amber had to act, and act quickly. They were gaining information which
would enable them to describe the position of the mine, even if they
succeeded in making no copy of the little map which accompanied the
prospectus.
He judged from the indistinct tone of their voices that they were
sitting with their backs to the door behind which he crouched.
Lambaire and Whitey were in fact in that position.
They sat close together under the one electric light the room
possessed, greedily absorbing the particulars.
“We shall have to check this with a bigger map,” said Whitey. “I don’t
recognize some of these places--they are called by native names.”
“I’ve got a real good map at my diggings,” Lambaire said. “Suppose
you bring along these things. It isn’t so much that we’ve got to give
an accurate copy of this plan--we’ve got to be sure in our own minds
exactly where the ‘pipe’ is situated.”
“That’s so,” said the other reluctantly. “It ought to be done at once.
Amber will suspect us and we shall move in a Haze of Splits by this
time to-morrow.”
He folded up the documents and slipped them into a long envelope. Then
he stood thinking.
“Lammie,” he said, “did you hear the porter say that a visitor had come
during the night?”
“Yes, but that’s usual, isn’t it?”
Whitey shook his head.
“Unusual,” he said shortly, “dam’ unusual.”
“Do you think----”
“I don’t know. I’m a bit nervy,” said the other, “but the visitor has
been on my mind ever since I came in. I’m going up to have a look at
his boots.”
“Why?”
“Don’t be a fool, and don’t ask foolish questions,” snarled Whitey.
“Visitors put their boots outside the door, don’t they? You can tell a
lot from a pair of boots.”
He handed the envelope containing the stolen prospectus to his
companion.
“Take this,” he said, “and wait till I come down.”
He unlocked the door and mounted the stairs cautiously.
Lambaire waited there.
“Lambaire!” hissed a voice from the open door.
“Yes.”
“Give me the envelope, quick.”
A hand, an eager demanding hand, reached through the little gap.
“Stay where you are--give me the envelope.”
Quickly Lambaire obeyed. The hand grasped the envelope, another closed
the door quickly, and there was silence.
“Now what the devil is wrong,” muttered the startled Lambaire. He felt
himself turning pale. There had been a hint of imminent danger in the
urgency of the voice. He waited, tense, alert, fearful; then he heard
quick steps on the stairs, and Whitey dashed into the room.
“Nobody there,” he said breathlessly. “A pair of shoes covered with mud
and a pair of gloves--it’s Amber.”
“Amber!”
“He’s followed us--let’s get out of this quick. Give me the envelope.”
Lambaire went white.
“I--I gave it to you,” he stammered.
“You liar!” Whitey was in a white heat of fury. “You gave me nothin’!
Give me the envelope.”
“I gave it to you, Whitey,” Lambaire almost whimpered. “As soon as you
left the room you came back and asked for it.”
“Did I come in--quick.”
“No, no,” The agitation of the big man was pitiable. “You put in your
hand and whispered----”
“Amber!” howled the other. He broke with a torrent of curses. “Come on,
you fool, he can’t have got far.”
He flew down the stairs, followed by Lambaire. The hall was deserted,
the door had been left ajar.
“There he is!”
By the light of a street lamp they saw the fleeing figure and started
off in pursuit.
There were few people in sight when a man in his stockinged feet came
swiftly from Northumberland Avenue to the Embankment.
“Stop, thief!” bawled Whitey.
The car was further along the Embankment than he had intended it to be,
but it was within easy sprinting distance.
“Stop, thief!” shouted Whitey again.
Amber had gained the car when a policeman appeared from nowhere.
“Hold hard,” said the man and grasped Amber’s arm.
The two pursuers were up to them in an instant.
“That man has stolen something belonging to me,” said Whitey, his voice
unsteady from his exertions.
“You are entirely mistaken.” Amber was more polite and less perturbed
than most detected thieves.
“Search him, constable--search him!” roused Whitey.
Amber laughed.
“My dear man, the policeman cannot search me in the street. Haven’t you
an elementary knowledge of the law?”
A little crowd of night wanderers had collected like magic. More
important fact, two other policemen were hurrying towards the group.
All this Amber saw and smiled internally, for things had fallen out as
he had planned.
“You charge this man,” the constable was saying.
“I want my property back,” fumed Whitey, “he’s a thief: look at him!
He’s in his stockinged feet! Give me the envelope you stole....”
The two policemen who had arrived elbowed their way through the little
crowd, and suddenly Whitey felt sick--ill.
“I agree to go to the station,” said Amber smoothly. “I, in turn,
accuse these men of burglary.”
“Take him off,” said Whitey, “my friend and I will follow and charge
him.”
“We’ll take the car,” said Amber, “but I insist upon these two men
accompanying us.”
Here was a situation which Whitey had not foreseen.
They were caught in a trap unless a miracle delivered them.
“We will return to our hotel and get our coats,” said Whitey with an
air of indifference.
The policeman hesitated, for the request was a reasonable one. “One of
you chaps go back with these gentlemen,” he said, “and you,” to Amber,
“had better come along with me. It seems to me I know you.”
“I dare say,” said Amber as he stepped into the car, “and if those two
men get away from your bovine friends you will know me much better than
you ever wish to know me.”
“None of your lip,” said the constable, seating himself by his side.
CHAPTER THE LAST
“... AND,” said the inspector savagely, “if you’d only known the A B
C of your duty, constable, you would have brought the two prosecutors
here.”
Amber was warming himself before the great fire that blazed in the
charge-room. A red-faced young policeman was warming himself before the
inspector’s desk.
“It can’t be helped, Inspector,” said Amber cheerfully, “I don’t know
but that if I had been in the constable’s place I should have behaved
in any other way. Stocking-footed burglar flyin’ for his life, eh?
Respectable gentlemen toiling in the rear; what would you have done?”
The inspector smiled.
“Well, sir,” he admitted, “I think the stockings would have convinced
me.”
Amber nodded and met the policeman’s grateful glance with a grin.
“I don’t think there is much use in waiting,” said Amber. “Our friends
have given the policemen the slip. There is a back entrance to the
hotel which I do not doubt they have utilized. Your men could not have
the power to make a summary arrest?”
The inspector shook his head.
“The charges are conspiracy and burglary, aren’t they?” he asked, “that
would require a warrant. A constable could take the responsibility for
making a summary arrest, but very few would care to take the risk.”
A messenger had brought Amber’s shoes and greatcoat and he was ready to
depart.
“I will furnish the Yard with the necessary affidavit,” he said;
“the time has come when we should make a clean sweep. I know almost
enough to hang them without the bother of referring to their latest
escapade--their complicated frauds extending over years are bad enough;
they are distributors, if not actual forgers, of spurious paper
money--that’s worse from a jury’s point of view. Juries understand
distributing.”
He had sent the car back to Maidstone to bring Sutton. He was not
surprised when he came down to breakfast at his hotel to find that
not only Frank, but his sister had arrived. Very briefly he told the
adventures of the night.
“We will finish with them,” he said. “They have ceased to be amusing.
A warrant will be issued to-day and with luck we should have them
to-night.”
* * * * *
Lambaire and Whitey in the meantime had reached the temporary harbour
afforded by the Bloomsbury boarding-house where Lambaire lived.
Whitey’s was ever the master mind in moments of crisis, and now he
took charge of the arrangements.
He found a shop in the city that opened early and purchased trunks
for the coming journey. Another store supplied him with such of his
wardrobe as was replaceable at a moment’s notice. He dared not return
to his hotel for the baggage he had left.
Lambaire was next to useless. He sat in the sitting-room Whitey had
engaged biting his finger-nails and cursing helplessly.
“It’s no good swearing, Lambaire,” said Whitey. “We’re up against
it--good. We’re _peleli_--as the Kaffirs say--finished. Get your
cheque-book.”
“Couldn’t we brazen it out?” querulously demanded the big man.
“Couldn’t we put up a bluff----?”
“Brazen!” sneered Whitey, “you’re a cursed fine brazener! You try to
brazen a jury! Where’s the pass-book?”
Reluctantly Lambaire produced it, and Whitey made a brief examination.
“Six thousand three hundred--that’s the balance,” he said with relish,
“and a jolly good balance too. We’ll draw all but a hundred. There will
be delay if the account is closed.”
He took the cheque-book and wrote in his angular caligraphy an order to
pay bearer six thousand two hundred pounds. Against the word Director
he signed his name and pushed the cheque-book to Lambaire. The other
hesitated, then signed.
“Wait a bit,” growled Lambaire as his friend reached for the cheque,
“who’s going to draw this?”
“I am,” said Whitey.
Lambaire looked at him suspiciously.
“Why not me?” he asked, “the bank knows me.”
“You--you thief!” spluttered Whitey, “you dog! Haven’t I trusted you?”
“This is a big matter,” said Lambaire doggedly.
With an effort Whitey mastered his wrath.
“Go and change it,” he said. “I’m not afraid of you running away--only
go quickly--the banks are just opening.”
“I don’t--I haven’t got any suspicion of you, Whitey,” said Lambaire
with heavy affability, “but business is business.”
“Don’t jaw--go,” said his companion tersely. If the truth be told,
Whitey recognized the danger of visiting the bank. There was a
possibility that a warrant had already been issued and that the bank
would be watched. There was a chance, however, that some delay might
occur, and in his old chivalrous way he had been willing to take the
risk.
Lambaire went to his room before he departed, and was gone for half
an hour. He found Whitey standing with his back to the fire in a
meditative mood.
“Here I am, you see.” Lambaire’s tone was one of gentle raillery. “I
haven’t run away.”
“No,” admitted Whitey. “I trust you more than you trust me--though you
half made up your mind to bolt with the swag when you came out of the
bank.”
Lambaire’s face went red.
“How--how do you know--what d’ye mean?” he demanded noisily.
“I followed you,” said Whitey simply, “in a taxi-cab.”
“Is that what you call trusting me?” demanded Lambaire with some
bitterness.
“No,” said Whitey without shame, “that’s what I call takin’ reasonable
precautions.”
Lambaire laughed, an unusual thing for him to do.
He pulled from his breast pockets two thick pads of bank-notes.
“There’s your lot, and there’s mine,” he said; “they are in
fifties--I’ll count them for you.”
Deftly he fingered the notes, turning them rapidly as an accountant
turns the leaves of his ledger. There were sixty-two.
Whitey folded them and put them into his pocket.
“Now what’s your plan?” asked Whitey.
“The Continent,” said Lambaire. “I’ll leave by the Harwich route for
Holland--we had better separate.”
Whitey nodded.
“I’ll get out by way of Ireland,” he lied. He looked at his watch. It
was nearly ten o’clock.
“I shall see you--sometime,” he said, turning as he left the room, and
Lambaire nodded. When he returned the big man had gone.
There is a train which leaves for the Continent at eleven from
Victoria--a very dangerous train, as Whitey knew, for it is well
watched. There was another which left at the same hour from
Holborn--this stops at Herne Hill.
Whitey resolved to take a tourist ticket at an office in Ludgate Hill
and a taxi-cab to Herne Hill.
He purchased the ticket and was leaving the office, when a thought
struck him.
He crossed to the counter where the money-changers sit. “Let me have a
hundred pounds’ worth of French money.”
He took two fifty-pound notes and pushed them through the grill.
The clerk looked at them, fingered them, then looked at Whitey.
“Notice anything curious about these?” he asked dryly.
“No.”
There was a horribly sinking sensation in Whitey’s heart.
“They are both numbered the same,” said the clerk, “and they are
forgeries.”
Mechanically Whitey took the bundle of notes from his pocket and
examined them. They were all of the same number.
His obvious perturbation saved him from an embarrassing inquiry.
“Have you been sold?”
“I have,” muttered the duped man. He took the notes the man offered him
and walked out.
A passing taxi drew to the kerb at his uplifted hand. He gave the
address of Lambaire’s lodging.
Lambaire had gone when he arrived: he had probably left before Whitey.
Harwich was a blind--Whitey knew that.
He went to Lambaire’s room. In his flight Lambaire had left many things
behind. Into one of the trunks so left Whitey stuck the bundle of
forgeries. If he was to be captured he would not be found in possession
of these damning proofs of villainy. A search of the room at first
revealed no clue to Lambaire’s destination, then Whitey happened upon a
tourist’s guide. It opened naturally at one page, which meant that one
page had been consulted more frequently than any other.
“Winter excursions to the Netherlands, eh?” said Whitey; “that’s not a
bad move, Lammie: no splits watch excursion trains.”
The train left Holborn at a quarter to eleven by way of Queensborough-
Flushing. He looked at his watch: it wanted five minutes to the
quarter, and to catch that train seemed an impossibility. Then an idea
came to him. There was a telephone in the hall of the boarding-house
usually well patronized. It was his good luck that he reached it before
another boarder came. It was greater luck that he got through to the
traffic manager’s office at Victoria with little delay.
“I want to know,” he asked rapidly, “if the ten forty-five excursion
from Holborn stops at any London stations?”
“Every one of ’em,” was the prompt reply, “as far as Penge: we pick up
all through the suburbs.”
“What time is it due away from Penge?”
He waited in a fume of impatience whilst the official consulted a
time-table.
“Eleven eighteen,” was the reply.
There was time. Just a little over half an hour. He fled from the
house. No taxi was in sight; but there was a rank at no great distance.
He had not gone far, however, before an empty cab overtook him.
“Penge Station,” he said. “I’ll give you a sovereign over your fare if
you get there within half an hour.”
The chauffeur’s face expressed his doubt.
“I’ll try,” he said.
Through London that day a taxi-cab moved at a rate which was
considerably in excess of the speed limit. Clear of the crowded West
End, the road was unhampered by traffic to any great extent, but it
was seventeen minutes past eleven when the cab pulled up before Penge
Station.
The train was already at the platform and Whitey went up the stairs two
at a time.
“Ticket,” demanded the collector.
“I’ve no ticket--I’ll pay on the train.”
“You can’t come on without a ticket, sir,” said the man.
The train was within a few feet of him and was slowly moving, and
Whitey made a dart, but a strong hand grasped him and pushed him back
and the gate clanged in his face.
He stood leaning against the wall, his face white, his fingers working
convulsively.
Something in his appearance moved the collector.
“Can’t be helped, sir,” he said. “I had----”
He stopped and looked in the direction of the departing train.
Swiftly he leant down and unlocked the door.
“Here--quick,” he said, “she’s stopped outside the station--there’s a
signal against her. You’ll just catch it.”
The rear carriages were not clear of the platform, and Whitey,
sprinting along, scrambled into the guard’s van just as the train was
moving off again.
He sank down into the guard’s seat. Whitey was a man of considerable
vitality. Ordinarily the exertion he had made would not have
inconvenienced him, but now he was suffering from something more than
physical distress.
“On me!” he muttered again and again, “to put them on me!”
It was not the loss of the money that hurt him, it was not Lambaire’s
treachery--he knew Lambaire through and through. It was the
substitution of the notes and the terrible risk his estimable friend
had inflicted on him.
In his cold way Whitey had decided. He had a code of his own. Against
Amber he had no grudge. Such spaces of thought as he allowed him were
of a complimentary character. He recognized the master mind, paid
tribute to the shrewdness of the man who had beaten him at his own game.
Nor against the law which pursued him--for instinct told him that there
would be no mercy from Amber now.
It was against Lambaire that his rage was directed. Lambaire, whose
right-hand man he had been in a score of nefarious schemes. They had
been together in bogus companies; they had dealt largely in “Spanish
silver”; they had been concerned in most generous systems of forgery.
The very notes that Lambaire had employed to fool him with were part of
an old stock.
The maker had committed the blunder of giving all the notes the same
number.
“They weren’t good enough for the public--but good enough for me,”
thought Whitey, and set his jaw.
The guard tried to make conversation, but his passenger had nothing to
say, save “yes” or “no.”
It was raining heavily when the train drew up at Chatham, and Whitey
with his coat collar turned up, his hat pulled over his eyes and a
handkerchief to his mouth, left the guard’s van and walked quickly
along the train.
The third-class carriages were sparsely filled. It seemed that the
“winter excursion” was poorly patronized.
Whitey gave little attention to the thirds--he had an eye for the
first-class carriages, which were in the main empty. He found his man
in the centre of the train--alone. He took him in with a glance of
his eye and walked on. The whistle sounded and as the train began to
glide from the platform he turned, opened the door of the carriage and
stepped in.
* * * * *
There were other people who knew Lambaire was on the train. Amber came
through Kent as fast as a 90-horse-power car could carry him. He might
have caught the train at Penge had he but known. It would have been
better for two people if he had.
With him was a placid inspector from Scotland Yard--by name Fells.
“We shall just do it, I think,” said Amber, looking at his watch, “and,
anyway, you will have people waiting?”
The inspector nodded. Speaking was an effort at the pace the car was
travelling.
He roused himself to the extent of expressing his surprise that Amber
had troubled to take the journey.
But Amber, who had seen the beginning of the adventure, was no man to
hear the end from another. He was out to finish the business, or to see
the finish. They reached the quay station as the excursion train came
in and hurried along the slippery quay. Already the passengers were
beginning their embarkation. By each gangway stood two men watching.
The last passenger was aboard.
“They could not have come,” said Amber disappointedly. “If----”
At that moment a railway official came running toward them.
“You gentlemen connected with the police?” he asked. “There’s something
rum in one of these carriages....”--he led the way, giving information
incoherently--“... gentleman won’t get out.”
They reached the carriage and Amber it was who opened the door....
“Come along, Whitey,” he said quietly.
But the man who sat in one corner of the carriage slowly counting two
thick packages of bank-notes took no notice.
“That’s a good ’un,” he muttered, “an’ that’s a good ’un--eh, Lammie?
These are good--but the other lot was bad. What a fool--fool--fool! Oh,
my God, what a fool you always was!”
He groaned the words, swaying from side to side as if in pain.
“Come out,” said Amber sharply.
Whitey saw him and rose from his seat.
“Hullo, Amber,” he said and smiled. “I’m coming ... what about our
River of Stars, eh? Here’s a pretty business--here’s money--look.”
He thrust out a handful of notes and Amber started back, for they were
splotched and blotted with blood.
“These are good ’uns,” said Whitey. His lips were trembling, and in
his colourless eyes there was a light which no man had ever seen. “The
others were bad ’uns. I had to kill old Lammie--he annoyed me.”
And he laughed horribly.
Under the seat they found Lambaire, shot through the heart.
THE END.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] Thieves’ argot for “detective.”
[2] Prevention of Crimes Act.
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:
Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.
Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.
Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.