It was Monday morning. A church clock striking one reminded Gordon of
this interesting fact. An hour had passed since Bobbie’s “good-night”
had come to him through the closed door of his room.
“Good-night,” said Gordon.
“I wasn’t speaking to you,” snapped Bobbie.
He had been out all the evening interviewing Inspector Carslake, and the
excursion had not been altogether profitable. Bobbie’s door closed. He
heard the click of Diana’s lock being fastened. Dempsi passed, after
rhapsodizing at the closed portals of Diana’s bower. From somewhere
below came the snores of Julius Superbus.
Every exit from the house was closed, save one. The little casement in
the big windows of The Study. Gordon had made a careful examination, for
there was a possibility that Diana had taken the precaution of screwing
it tight. But this she had neglected, satisfied probably with the
presence in The Study of Mr. Superbus.
Twice Gordon had tiptoed to the door of his room and turned the handle.
It was unlocked to-night. With Bobbie in the house Diana had relaxed her
vigilance. Half-past-one chimed. Gordon got off the bed, put on his
soiled collar and his coat and gathered up his shoes. He was penniless,
but the servants at the hotel knew him, and he would be able to write a
cheque on the hotel note-paper and get all the cash he wanted. And then
he would return and deal with Mr. Dempsi. He had not yet decided as to
the method of Dempsi’s death, but it would be painful. As for Heloise
... he hoped that she would be gone.
Extinguishing the light, he opened the door and listened. There was no
sound, and, creeping down the stairs, he passed silently into The Study.
Mr. Superbus was breathing regularly--the window rattled a little; the
floor vibrated; but no other ill effects followed. As Gordon stood
listening, the detective grunted and turned over on his side. The snores
ceased--Julius was in a deeper sleep than ever. Now was his chance; yet
he had not taken a step before he halted. A circle of light had appeared
at the window. He waited, holding his breath. There was a rasping
sound, and the casement opened. He saw the dark bulk of a figure wriggle
through. A long pause, in which the newcomer was invisible, then the
circle of light appeared again. This time on the safe.
A burglar! His first impulse was to leap at the man and grapple with
him. His second was to approach with less commotion....
“Hands up, or I’ll fire!”
At the first sibilant of the words, the light went out, and then:
“Don’t shoot, guv’nor. It’s a cop!”
“Don’t shout, you fool!” hissed Gordon. “There’s a man sleeping in the
room--where’s your gun?”
“Don’t carry a gun.”
“What are you doing here?”
The unknown burglar’s impatient click of lips was certainly called for.
“Don’t ask silly questions--I said it was a cop, didn’t I?”
Gordon groped for the flash-lamp and turned it full on the man’s face.
“I know you,” he said immediately.
The thin lips parted in a grin.
“You ’ave the advantage of me,” he said with mordant humour.
“You are the man who was cleaning the windows yesterday morning?”
The burglar nodded.
“Got me first time. Stark’s my name--I’m not giving any trouble, and if
you tell the judge I had a gun you’re a liar.”
He raised his voice a little. Gordon glanced round fearfully, but the
detective was snoring again.
“Ssh! Not so loud. Have you opened the safe?”
The idea came to him at that second: a brain flash of singular
brilliance.
“I should have done if you’d been a minute later,” said Stark
plaintively. “You’ve spoilt a good night’s work.”
Gordon nodded.
“Open it,” he said, and Stark could not believe his ears.
“What!”
“Open it. I’ll pay you well--and I’ll give you your liberty. You’ll only
have to work on one lock--the combination is ‘Telma’--got that?”
“Do you mean it, guv’nor?” incredulity dominant.
“Yes, yes. I lost my key,” replied Gordon. “Now get to work--can you
manage without the lights?”
The other grinned in the darkness.
“Sure. Only amatchoors want a lot of light. A flash is best--and
brightest.”
He produced from under his coat a short jemmy and a longer and thinner
instrument. He may have been, and was, a poor window-cleaner. As burglar
he belonged to the aristocracy.
“Ever seen a safe opened before?” he asked over his shoulder.
Gordon shook his head.
“No--not this way,” he admitted.
“Takes years to learn and there’s not much money in it,” said Mr. Stark
sadly. “Spoilt by foreigners this trade is, ruined by competition and
outsiders, like everything else. Americans mostly. Why they don’t keep
in their own country I don’t know. Very smart fellows--I’ll say that,
though they’re taking the bread out of our mouths; but we’ve got as good
men if they only had a bit of encouragement and capital behind ’em.”
The door swung out.
“There you are, sir!”
Gordon peered over the man’s shoulder.
“Open?” he asked, in a tone which combined surprise and annoyance. The
man who sold him the safe was indeed a teller of untrue stories.
“Yes.”
“Show the light. Here it is. Moses! there’s not ten thousand there!”
He grasped what there was, and raised his head to listen--somebody was
coming down the stairs.
“Now go quick--there’s somebody coming. Here, take this!”
He thrust a bill into the burglar’s hand. In a second Stark was through
the window. Gordon was following, when a quivering voice from the sofa
called:
“Who’s there----?”
Mr. Selsbury did not wait to explain. As the detective, with surprising
courage, ran toward him, Gordon jumped from the window.
“Stop!”
It was another voice--Dempsi! Gordon dropped to the courtyard as the
other fired.
“Bang--bang!”
Twice he shot, and there was a scream of pain. Diana heard it, and
sprang from bed. Drawing her wrap about her as she ran, she flew down
the stairs and into The Study. In the centre of the room stood Dempsi,
and at his feet a figure--the wriggling figure of Julius Superbus.
“He has paid the price of duty,” said Dempsi.
And so it proved. Ten little toes had Mr. Superbus brought to 61 Cheynel
Gardens. One would never go forth again attached to his patrician feet.