smiled engagingly. He knew exactly what constituted the great attraction of his services.
“My position is this,” he explained. “So far my work has been entirely amateur. In that capacity I have averted one or two crimes, remedied an occasional injustice, and now and then been of service to my professional friend, Louis Carlyle. But there is no reason at all why I should serve a commercial firm in an ordinary affair of business for nothing. For any information I should require a fee, a quite nominal fee of, say, one hundred pounds.”
The director looked as though his faith in human nature had received a rude blow.
“A hundred pounds would be a very large initial fee for a small firm like this, Mr Carrados,” he remarked in a pained voice.
“And that, of course, would be independent of Mr Carlyle’s professional charges,” added Carrados.
“Is that sum contingent on any specific performance?” inquired the manager.
“I do not mind making it conditional on my procuring for you, for the police to act on, a photograph and a description of the thief.”
The two officials conferred apart for a moment. Then the manager returned.
“We will agree, Mr Carrados, on the understanding that these things are to be in our hands within two days. Failing that——”
“No, no!” cried Mr Carlyle indignantly, but Carrados good-humouredly put him aside.
“I will accept the condition in the same sporting spirit that inspires it. Within forty-eight hours or no pay. The cheque, of course, to be given immediately the goods are delivered?”
“You may rely on that.”
Carrados took out his pocket-book, produced an envelope bearing an American stamp, and from it extracted an unmounted print.
“Here is the photograph,” he announced. “The man is called Ulysses K. Groom, but he is better known as ‘Harry the Actor.’ You will find the description written on the back.”
Five minutes later, when they were alone, Mr Carlyle expressed his opinion of the transaction.
“You are an unmitigated humbug, Max,” he said, “though an amiable one, I admit. But purely for your own private amusement you spring these things on people.”
“On the contrary,” replied Carrados, “people spring these things on me.”
“Now this photograph. Why have I heard nothing of it before?”
Carrados took out his watch and touched the fingers.
“It is now three minutes to eleven. I received the photograph at twenty past eight.”
“Even then, an hour ago you assured me that you had done nothing.”
“Nor had I—so far as result went. Until the keystone of the edifice was wrung from the manager in his room, I was as far away from demonstrable certainty as ever.”
“So am I—as yet,” hinted Mr Carlyle.
“I am coming to that, Louis. I turn over the whole thing to you. The man has got two clear days’ start and the chances are nine to one against catching him. We know everything, and the case has no further interest for me. But it is your business. Here is your material.
“On that one occasion when the ‘tawny’ man crossed our path, I took from the first a rather more serious view of his scope and intention than you did. That same day I sent a cipher cable to Pierson of the New York service. I asked for news of any man of such and such a description—merely negative—who was known to have left the States; an educated man, expert in the use of disguises, audacious in his operations, and a specialist in ‘dry’ work among banks and strong-rooms.”
“Why the States, Max?”
“That was a sighting shot on my part. I argued that he must be an English-speaking man. The smart and inventive turn of the modern Yank has made him a specialist in ingenious devices, straight or crooked. Unpickable locks and invincible lock-pickers, burglar-proof safes and safe-specializing burglars, come equally from the States. So I tried a very simple test. As we talked that day and the man walked past us, I dropped the words ‘New York’—or, rather, ‘Noo Y’rk’—in his hearing.”
“I know you did. He neither turned nor stopped.”
“He was that much on his guard; but into his step there came—though your poor old eyes could not see it, Louis—the ‘psychological pause,’ an absolute arrest of perhaps a fifth of a second; just as it would have done with you if the word ‘London’ had fallen on your ear in a distant land. However, the whys and the wherefores don’t matter. Here is the essential story.
“Eighteen months ago ‘Harry the Actor’ successfully looted the office safe of M’Kenkie, J. F. Higgs & Co.; of Cleveland, Ohio. He had just married a smart but very facile third-rate vaudeville actress—English by origin—and wanted money for the honeymoon. He got about five hundred pounds, and with that they came to Europe and stayed in London for some months. That period is marked by the Congreave Square post office burglary, you may remember. While studying such of the British institutions as most appealed to him, the ‘Actor’s’ attention became fixed on this safe-deposit. Possibly the implied challenge contained in its telegraphic address grew on him until it became a point of professional honour with him to despoil it; at all events he was presumedly attracted by an undertaking that promised not only glory but very solid profit. The first part of the plot was, to the most skilful criminal ‘impersonator’ in the States, mere skittles. Spreading over those months he appeared at ‘The Safe’ in twelve different characters and rented twelve safes of different sizes. At the same time he made a thorough study of the methods of the place. As soon as possible he got the keys back again into legitimate use, having made duplicates for his own private ends, of course. Five he seems to have returned during his first stay; one was received later, with profuse apologies, by registered post; one was returned through a leading Berlin bank. Six months ago he made a flying visit here, purely to work off two more. One he kept from first to last, and the remaining couple he got in at the beginning of his second long residence here, three or four months ago.
“This brings us to the serious part of the cool enterprise. He had funds from the Atlantic and South-Central Mail-car coup when he arrived here last April. He appears to have set up three establishments; a home, in the guise of an elderly scholar with a young wife, which, of course, was next door to our friend the manager; an observation point, over which he plastered the inscription ‘Rub in Rubbo for Everything’ as a reason for being; and, somewhere else, a dressing-room with essential conditions of two doors into different streets.
“About six weeks ago he entered the last stage. Mrs Harry, with quite ridiculous ease, got photographs of the necessary page or two of the record-book. I don’t doubt that for weeks before then everyone who entered the place had been observed, but the photographs linked them up with the actual men into whose hands the ‘Actor’s’ old keys had passed—gave their names and addresses, the numbers of their safes, their passwords and signatures. The rest was easy.”
“Yes, by Jupiter; mere play for a man like that,” agreed Mr Carlyle, with professional admiration. “He could contrive a dozen different occasions for studying the voice and manner and appearance of his victims. How
