THE BANK SMASHER
Three men sat in the inner room of a City office. The outer door was
locked, the door communicating between the outer office and the
sanctum was wide open.
The men sat at a table, discussing a frugal lunch which had been
brought in from a restaurant near by, and talking together in low
tones.
George Wallis, who spoke with such authority as to suggest that he
held a leading position above and before the others, was a man of
forty, inclined a little to stoutness, of middle height, and with no
distinguishing features save the short bristling moustache and the
jet-black eyebrows which gave his face a somewhat sinister appearance.
His eyes were tired and lazy, his square jaw bespoke immense
determination, and the hands which played idly with a pen were small
but strong; they were the hands of an artist, and indeed George
Wallis, under one name or another, was known as an artist in his
particular profession in every police bureau on the Continent.
Callidino, the little Italian at his side, was neat and dapper. His
hair was rather long, he suggested rather the musical enthusiast than
the cool-headed man of business. And yet this dapper Italian was known
as the most practical of the remarkable trio which for many years had
been the terror of every bank president in France.
The third was Persh, a stout man with a pleasant, florid face, and a
trim cavalry moustache, who, despite his bulk, was a man of
extraordinary agility, and his escape from Devil’s Island and his
subsequent voyage to Australia in an open boat will be fresh in the
minds of the average newspaper readers.
They made no disguise as to their identities, they did not evade the
frank questioning which was their lot when the City Police smelt them
out and came in to investigate the affairs of this “outside brokers’”
establishment. The members of the City force were a little
disappointed to discover that quite a legitimate business was being
done. You cannot quarrel even with convicted bank robbers if they
choose to get their living by any way which, however much discredited,
is within the law; and beyond warning those of their clients with whom
they could get in touch that the heads of this remarkable business
were notorious criminals, the police must needs sit by and watch,
satisfied that sooner or later the men would make a slip that would
bring them within the scope of police action.
“And they will have to wait a jolly long time,” said Wallis.
He looked round his “Board” with an amused smile.
“Have they been in to-day?” asked Callidino.
“They have been in to-day,” said Wallis gravely. “They have searched
our books and our desks and our clothes, and even the legs of our
office stools.”
“An indelicate proceeding,” said Persh cheerfully.
“And what did they find, George?”
George smiled.
“They found all there was to be found,” he said.
“I suppose it was the burglary at the Bond Guarantees that I have been
reading about that’s excited them,” said the Italian coolly.
“I suppose so,” said Wallis, with grave indifference. “It is pretty
terrible to have names such as we possess. Seriously,” he went on, “I
am not very much afraid of the police, even suppose there was anything
to find. I haven’t met one of them who has the intelligence of that
cool devil we met at the Foreign Office, when I had to answer some
questions about Persh’s unique experiences on Devil’s Island.”
“What was his name?” asked Persh, interested.
“Something associated in my mind with South Africa--oh, yes,
Standerton. A cool beast--I met him at Epsom the other day,” said
Wallis. “He’s lost in a place like the Foreign Office. Do you remember
that quick run through he gave me, Persh?”
The other nodded.
“Before I knew where I was I admitted that I’d been in Huntingdonshire
the same week as Lady Perkinton’s jewels were taken. If he’d had
another five minutes I guess he’d have known”--he lowered his voice to
little more than a whisper--“all this hidden treasure which the
English police are seeking was cached.”
The men laughed as at some great joke.
“Talking of cool people,” said Wallis, “do you recall that weird devil
who held us up in Hatton Garden?”
“Have you found him?” asked Callidino.
George shook his head.
“No,” he said slowly, “only I’m rather afraid of him.”
Which was a remarkable confession for him to make. He changed the
subject abruptly.
“I suppose you people know,” said Wallis, “that the police are
particularly active just now? I’ve reason to be aware of the fact,
because they have just concluded a most exhaustive search of my
private belongings.”
He did not exaggerate. The police were, indeed, most eager for some
clue to associate these three known criminals with the acts of the
past month.
Half an hour later Wallis left the building. He paused in the entrance
hall of the big block of offices, lighted a cigar with an air that
betokened his peace with the world and his approval of humanity.
As his foot touched the pavement a tall man stepped to his side.
Wallis looked up quickly and gave a little nod.
“I want you,” said the tall man coldly.
“Do you indeed?” said Wallis with exaggerated interest. “And what may
you want with me?”
“You come along with me, and not so much of your lip,” said the man.
He called a cab, and the two men were rapidly driven to the nearest
City police station. Wallis continued smoking his cigar, without any
outward indication of apprehension. He would have chatted very gaily
with the officer who had effected his arrest, but the officer himself
was in no mood for light humour.
He was hustled into the charge room and brought before the inspector’s
desk.
That officer looked up with a nod. He was more genial than his captor.
“Well, Wallis,” he said with a smile, “we want some information from
you.”
“You always want information from somebody,” said the man with cold
insolence. “Have you had another burglary?”
The inspector nodded.
“Tut, tut!” said the prisoner with an affectation of distress, “how
very annoying for you Mr. Whitling. I suppose you have got the
culprit?” he asked blandly.
“I’ve got you at present,” said the calm inspector. “I should not be
surprised if I had also got the culprit. Can you explain where you
were last night?”
“With the greatest of pleasure,” said Wallis; “I was dining with a
friend.”
“His name?”
The other shrugged his shoulders. “His name is immaterial. I was
dining with a friend whose name does not matter. Put that down,
inspector.”
“And where were you dining with this unknown friend?” asked the
imperturbable official.
Wallis named a restaurant in Wardour Street.
“At what hour were you dining?” asked the inspector patiently.
“Between the hours of eight and eleven,” said the man, “as the
proprietor of the restaurant will testify.”
The inspector smiled to himself. He knew the restaurant and knew the
proprietor. His testimony would not carry a great deal of weight with
a jury.
“Have you anybody respectable,” he asked, “who will vouch for the fact
that you were there, other than your unknown friend and Signor
Villimicci?”
Wallis nodded.
“I might name, with due respect,” he said, “Sergeant Colebrook, of the
Central Investigation Department of Scotland Yard.”
He was annoyingly bland. The inspector looked up sharply.
“Is he going to vouch for you?” he asked.
“He was watching me the whole of the time, disguised, I think, as a
gentleman. At least, he was in evening dress, and he was quite
different from the waiters. You see, he was sitting down.”
“I see,” said the inspector. He put down his pen.
“It was rather amusing to be watched by a real detective-sergeant,
from that most awe-inspiring wilderness of bricks,” the man continued.
“I quite liked it, though I am afraid the poor fellow was bored sooner
than I was.”
“I understand,” said the inspector, “that you were being watched from
eight o’clock last night till----?”
He paused inquiringly.
“Till near midnight, I should imagine. Until our dress-suited
detective, looking tragically like a detective all the time, had
escorted me to the front door of my flat.”
“I can verify that in a minute,” said the inspector. “Go into the
parade room.”
Wallis strolled unconcernedly into the inner room whilst the inspector
manipulated the telephone.
In five minutes the prisoner was sent for.
“You’re all right,” said the inspector. “Clean bill for you, Wallis.”
“I am glad to hear it,” said Wallis. “Very relieved indeed!” He sighed
heavily. “Now that I am embarked upon what I might term a legalised
form of thefts from the public, it is especially pleasing to me to
know that my actions are approved by the police.”
“We don’t approve of everything you do,” said the inspector.
He was an annoying man, Wallis thought; he would neither lose his
temper nor be rude.
“You can go now--sorry to have bothered you.”
“Don’t mention it,” said the polite man with a little bow.
“By the way, before you go,” said the inspector, “just come into my
inner office, will you?”
Wallis followed him. The inspector closed the door behind them. They
were alone.
“Wallis, do you know there is a reward of some twelve thousand pounds
for the detection of the men engaged in these burglaries?”
“You surprise me,” said Mr. Wallis, lifting his eyebrows.
“I don’t surprise you,” said the inspector; “in fact, you know much
more about it than I do. And I tell you this, that we are prepared to
go to any lengths to track this gang, or, at any rate, to put an end
to its operations. Look here, George,” he tapped the other on the
chest with his strong, gnarled finger, “is it a scream?”
“A scream?” Mr. Wallis was puzzled innocence itself.
“Will you turn King’s evidence?” said the other shortly.
“I should be most happy,” said Wallis, with a helpless shrug, “but how
can I turn King’s evidence about a matter on which I am absolutely
uninformed? The reward is monstrously tempting. If I had companions in
crime I should need very little persuading. My conscience is a matter
of constant adjustment. It is rather like the foot-rule which
shoemakers employ to measure their customers’ feet--terrifically
adjustable. It has a sliding scale which goes up and down.”
“I don’t want to hear any more about your conscience,” said the
officer wearily. “Do you scream or don’t you?”
“I don’t scream,” said Mr. Wallis emphatically.
The inspector jerked his head sideways, and with the bow which the
invitation had interrupted, Mr. Wallis walked out into the street.
He knew, no one better, how completely every action of his was
watched. He knew, even as he left the station, that the seemingly idle
loafer on the corner of the street had picked him up, would follow him
until he handed him over to yet another plain-clothes officer for
observation. From beat to beat, from one end of the City to another,
those vigilant eyes would never leave him; whilst he slept, the door,
back and front of his lodging would be watched. He could not move
without all London--all the London that mattered as far as he was
concerned--knowing everything about that move.
His home was the upper part of a house over a tobacconist’s in a small
street off Charing Cross Road. And to his maisonette he made a
leisurely way, not hastening his steps any the more because he knew
that on one side of the street an innocent commercial traveller, and
on the other a sandwich man apparently trudging homeward with his
board, were keeping him under observation. He stopped to buy some
cigars in the Charing Cross Road, crossed near the Alhambra, and ten
minutes later was unlocking the door of the narrow passage which ran
by the side of the shop, and gave him private access to the suite
above.
It was a room comfortably furnished and giving evidence of some taste.
Large divan chairs formed a feature of the furnishing, and the prints,
though few, were interesting by reason of their obvious rarity.
He did not trouble to make an examination of the room, or of the
remainder of the maisonette he rented. If the police had been, they
had been. If they had not, it did not matter. They could find nothing.
He had a good conscience, so far as a man’s conscience may be good who
fears less for the consequence of his deeds than for the apparent, the
obvious and the discoverable consequences.
He rang a bell, and after a little delay an old woman answered the
call.
“Make me some tea, Mrs. Skard,” he said. “Has anybody called?”
The old woman looked up to the ceiling for inspiration.
“Only the man about the gas,” she said.
“Only the man about the gas,” repeated George Wallis admiringly.
“Wasn’t he awfully surprised to find that we didn’t have gas at all?”
The old lady looked at him in some amazement.
“He did say he had come to see about the gas,” she said, “and then
when he found we had no gas he said ‘electricity’--a most
absent-minded young man.”
“They are that way, Mrs. Skard,” said her master tolerantly; “they
fall in love, don’t you know, round about this season of the year, and
when their minds become occupied with other and more pleasant thoughts
than gas mantles and incandescent lights they become a little
confused. I suppose he did not bother you--he told you you need not
wait?” he suggested.
“Quite right, sir,” said Mrs. Skard. “He said he would do all he had
to do without assistance.”
“And I will bet you he did it,” said George Wallis with boisterous
good humour.
Undisturbed by the knowledge that his rooms had been searched by an
industrious detective, he sat for an hour reading an American
magazine. At six o’clock a taxi-cab drove into the street and pulled
up before the entrance of his flat. The driver, a stoutish man with a
beard, looked helplessly up and down seeking a number, and one of the
two detectives who had been keeping observation on the house walked
across the road casually towards him.
“Do you want to find a number, mate?” he asked.
“I want No. 43,” said the cabman.
“That’s it,” said the officer.
He saw the cabman ring, and having observed that he entered the door,
which was closed behind him, he walked back to his co-worker.
“George is going to take a little taxi drive,” he said; “we will see
where he goes.”
The man who had waited on the other side of the road nodded.
“I don’t suppose he will go anywhere worth following, but I have the
car waiting round the corner.”
“I’ll car him,” said the second man bitterly. “Did you hear what he
told Inspector Whitling of the City Police about me last night?”
The first detective was considerably interested.
“No, I should like to hear.”
“Well,” began the man, and then thought better of it. It was nothing
to his credit that he should keep a man under observation three hours,
and that the quarry should be aware all the time that he was being
watched.
“Hullo!” he said as the door of No. 43 opened, “here is our man.”
He threw a swift glance along the street, and saw that the hired
motor-car which had been provided for his use was waiting.
“Here he comes,” he said, but it was not the man he expected. The
bearded chauffeur came out alone, waved a farewell to somebody in the
hall-way whom they could not see, and having started his engine with
great deliberation, got upon his seat, and the taxi-cab moved slowly
away.
“George is not going,” said the detective. “That means that we shall
have to stay here for another two or three hours--there is his light.”
For four long hours they kept their vigil, and never once was a pair
of eyes taken from the only door through which George Wallis could
make his exit. There was no other way by which he could leave, of that
they were assured.
Behind the house was a high wall, and unless the man was working in
collusion with half the respectable householders, not only in that
street but of Charing Cross Road, he could not by any possible chance
leave his flat.
At half-past ten the taxi-cab they had seen drove back to the door of
the flat, and the driver was admitted. He evidently did not expect to
stay long, for he did not switch off his engine; as a matter of fact,
he was not absent from his car longer than thirty seconds. He came
back almost immediately, climbed up on to his seat and drove away.
“I wonder what the game is?” asked the detective, a little puzzled.
“He has been to take a message somewhere,” said the other. “I think we
ought to have found out.”
Ten minutes later Inspector Goldberg, of Scotland Yard, drove into the
street and sprang from his car opposite the men.
“Has Wallis returned?” he asked quickly.
“Returned!” repeated the puzzled detective, “he has not gone out yet.”
“Has not gone out?” repeated the inspector with a gasp. “A man
answering to his description was seen leaving the City branch of the
Goldsmiths’ Guild half an hour ago. The safe has been forced and
twenty thousand pounds’ worth of jewelry has been taken.”
There was a little silence.
“Well, sir,” said the subordinate doggedly, “one thing I will swear,
and it is that George Wallis has not left this house to-night.”
“That’s true, sir,” said the second man. “The sergeant and I have not
left this place since Wallis went in.”
“But,” said the bewildered detective-inspector, “it must be Wallis, no
other man could have done the job as he did it.”
“It could not have been, sir,” persisted the watcher.
“Then who in the name of Heaven did the job?” snapped the inspector.
His underlings wisely offered no solution.