The Red Book Magazine/Volume 38/Number 4/The Leeds Bank Robbery

by E. Phillips Oppenheim

 

The Pursuit of an Arch Criminal by
a Master Detective

 

The Leeds
Bank Robbery

By E. Phillips Oppenheim

illustrations by W. B. King

MICHAEL SAYERS, arch criminal of many aliases and and disguises was about to be arrested by the one police-officer who could recognize him, when his maid-servant Janet Soames shot and killed the officer and thus saved him. Thereafter Janet, a girl of strange beauty, became Sayers' accomplice. The forces of the law also received important reinforcement when Sir Norman Greyes, formerly of Scotland Yard, went back to his old calling and sought to pick up the trail of Sayers, whom he had known under the alias of Stanfield. How he accomplished this is told in this story, related at first in Sayers' own words:

IT had taken months to collect all the necessary information and make the preliminary arrangements, but the moment had arrived at last. At twenty minutes to twelve on a Friday morning, I descended from a rather shabby Ford car exactly opposite Bailey's grocery stores at the corner of Menwood Road, in one of the northern suburbs of Leeds. It is a neighborhood of six-roomed houses and long, cobbled streets, a neighborhood teeming with men and women when the great factories close at hand are empty: but at this particular hour of the day, when the children are at school, and the men, and many of the women, are still in the mills, it shows signs of something approaching desertion. There was a handsome gray touring landaulette containing two passengers, a man and a woman, drawn up on the other side of the way, apparently to take advantage of the shade of some tall billboards while the chauffeur filled up with petrol. Otherwise—as a careful glance up and down the street convinced me—not a soul was in sight.

I walked along a hot asphalt path turned the corner into what was known as the Boulevard, almost unnoticed. On my left was a stretch of waste-ground, black and with malodorous refuse, empty tins and bottles, abandoned even by the children as an undesirable playground. On my right were more houses in course of erection but today deserted because of an opportune strike amongst the masons the only inhabited edifice was the one where my business lay. A brass plate upon the door indicated that this was a branch of Brown's Bank, planted out here in this uncomely spot for the convenience of the huge factories which dominated the neighborhood.

With my hand upon the swing-door I glanced around. My luck was certainly in, for there was still not even a child to be seen. Inside, behind the counter, both the manager and his clerk were busy counting out bundles of treasury-notes. They looked up inquiringly as I entered. Strangers in such a place, I imagine, were rare. Such a stranger as I was a rarity which they were never likely to experience again in this world.

My plans were cut and dried to the last detail. I wasted no time in any silly attempt to hold the place up, but brief though the seconds were, it was amazing how my brain chronicled a host of varying impressions. I saw the bland smile fade from the manager's lips; I saw the dawn of suspicion in his eyes, the gleam of terror followed by the spasm of pain as I shot him through the right shoulder-blade. His assistant had not the courage of a rabbit. White-faced, gasping for mercy, he stood there with his hands above his head and his knees shaking. I am convinced that if I had left him alone for another five seconds, he would have collapsed hopelessly without any interference on my part. I was not able to take risks, however; so, leaning over, I struck him on the point of the jaw. He fell in a crumpled heap behind the counter. I then helped myself to seven thousand-odd pounds in bank- and treasury-notes, and in about a minute and a half after I had entered the bank, I strolled back again the way I had come.

The chauffeur, the police-sergeant and I solemnly inspected the number-plate. “That will be all right now, Sergeant?” I inquired.

At the corner of the street, I looked back. There were no signs of life about the bank, no one apparently on his way toward it. There were a few children playing about the unoccupied houses, and behind the windows of the cottages in the street where I now was, were women intent upon various domestic duties. One woman was scolding her child just outside the door. She glanced at me only in the most perfunctory fashion. My Panama hat was pulled well over my head, a reasonable precaution, with the sun at its greatest power. A man was bending over the open bonnet of the car which I had left at the corner. I passed him by without a glance and stepped into the gray touring-car behind. The engine was purring gently; the chauffeur's fingers were upon the gear handle as I appeared. I took my place by the side of Janet, unrecognizable beneath her motor-veil, and we glided off northwards. There were no signs of any disturbance as we shot into the broad main street. We gathered speed up the Chapeltown Hill, and very soon we were racing for Scotland.

Janet passed me a silver flask soon after we had passed out the suburbs. I shook my head.

“You know that I never take anything until one o'clock,” I reminded her. “Why should I drink in the middle of the morning?”

I fancied that I caught through her veil a gleam of that almost worshiping fidelity which had led me to trust this woman as I had trusted no other in my life.

“What a nerve!” she murmured.

“I have no nerves,” I rejoined; “neither have I any fear. By this time you ought to realize it.”

“All went smoothly?” she asked.

“Absolutely according to program. A chance customer would have been the only possible disturbance, and the position of the bank rendered that unlikely.”

“What happened?”

“I shot the manager through the shoulder-blade,” I told her. “The heart would probably have been safer, but the blinds of the bank were all drawn to keep out the sun, and my Panama was as good as a mask. His clerk was almost dead from fear before I touched him. I didn't have to waste a bullet there.”

“And how much?” she inquired.

“Only just over seven thousand pounds,” I admitted. “It seems a pitiful amount for so much planning and risk. Still, something had to be done.”

We were up on a stretch of moorland now, well away from curious eves. Janet and I were busy for some ten minutes making three parcels of my stock of notes. Then she looked at the map.

“Arthington should be the next village,” she remarked

I nodded. We descended a steep hill. Halfway up the next we came upon a small motorcar drawn up by the side of the road, the bonnet thrown open, its owner seated in the dust. The latter rose to his feet as we approached. I handed him the black bag which I had been carrying, in which were my Panama hat and one of the packets of notes. He raised his cap nonchalantly.

“According to plan?” he asked.

“According to plan,” I replied.

We sped on for another twenty miles and then an almost similar occurrence took place. A man seated by the side of his motorcycle rose to his feet as we approached. I handed him the second packet.

“All well?” he asked

“Perfectly,” I assured him.

We were off again in less than ten seconds. Our third stop was at the top of a hill forty miles farther north, after we had partaken of a picnic luncheon in the car. A man was seated motionless in a large touring-car, headed in our direction. He held out his arms as we approached, and glanced at his watch.

“Wonderful!” he murmured “You are three minutes to the good.”

I handed him the third packet. He waved his hand and started up his engine. Soon we left him, a speck behind us I leaned back and lighted a cigarette.

“I have now,” I remarked, “only one anxiety.”

“And that?” Janet inquired quickly.

“About the greens at Kinbrae,” I confided. “I met a man last year who told me that they were apt to get dried up.”

She smiled.

“We had plenty of rain last month,” she reminded me. “I thought you were going to speak of our friend.”

I shook my head

“Norman Greyes is in Norway,” I told her. “I am not sure,” I went on, after a moment's hesitation, “whether I do not sometimes regret it.”

“Why?”

I looked out across the heather-clad moor to where rolling masses of yellow gorse seemed to melt into the blue haze. It was a very wonderful day and a very wonderful country into which we were speeding

“Norman Greyes has made life inconvenient for us for several years,” I said. “One of our best men has had to devote the whole of his time to watching him. We have been obliged to stay away from places which I very much wanted to visit. He has that absurd gift—he always had—of being able to connect a particular undertaking with a particular person. For that reason we have had to remain idle until we are practically paupers. When we have paid the expenses of this coup, and paid the staff there will be barely enough left to keep us until Christmas. If we could get rid of Norman Greyes, we could seek wider fields.”

“There are limits to my candor,” I protested. “I am your enemy, and you know it. If it pays you to attempt to murder me, I imagine you will try.”

“Why not?” she asked indifferently. “He is only a man like the others.”

I pretended to be deep in thought. As a matter of fact, I was studying Janet. No creature or servant in this world could render such faithful service as she has rendered me; yet I am one of those persons gifted with instincts. I know that she has a strange mind, a strange, tumultuously passionate nature. I have so far been the man of her life. If it were not I, I sometimes wonder whether it might not be Norman Greyes.

We were to have one tense few minutes before we reached our stopping-place for the night. We had just passed through a small town, and our silent chauffeur was preparing to let out his engine again, when we were confronted by what was, under the circumstances, a very sinister sight. Two men on bicycles, approaching us, dismounted and stood in the middle of the road with outstretched hands. The sun, even in the distance, flashed upon their uniforms. We realized at once that they were policemen. The chauffeur half turned toward me.

“What shall you do?” Janet demanded.

“Do?” I replied. “Why, the natural thing, of course. All this is provided for. —Oliver,” I added, leaning forward, “those policemen seem to want to speak to us. Pull up.”

We came to a standstill a yard or two away from them. The larger of the two men, who wore the uniform of a sergeant, made a solemn and portentous approach.

“Good afternoon, Sergeant,” I said. “I hope that we are not in trouble?”

He looked at me as he might have done at a man whose hands were dripping with the blood of his best friend.

“It's your number-plate, sir,” he announced. “They telephoned us through from Ripon to stop your car and call your attention to it.”

“What is wrong with my number-plate?” I asked.

“Why, you've been driving where they've watered the roads freely,” the sergeant pointed out, “and it's muddied it up entirely. There's no one can read a letter of it.”

I felt Janet's fingers clutch mine, and they were as cold as ice. It was not a moment which I myself forgot, less for its significance than for its effect upon my companion. The chauffeur, the police-sergeant and I solemnly inspected the number-plate; and the former, with a duster from his tool-chest, carefully rubbed it clean.

“That will be all right now, Sergeant?” I inquired.

“That will be quite all right, sir,” he admitted, taking off his cap and wiping the perspiration from his forehead. “It's a warm day, this, for the bicyles.”

It was my policy not to overdo the matter, and indeed it was not necessary, for the man's eyes glistened as I deposited a couple of half-crowns in his hand.

“I am sorry to have given you this trouble,” I said. “We tourists are proverbially thoughtless about our number-plates. I hope you will accept this and have a drink with me.”

“We will that, sure, sir,” the sergeant promised, saluting first me and then Janet. “Come along, Jock,” he added; “we'll pay a little visit to the Widow MacGill on the way back.”

So we drove off again northward. My chauffeur was an elderly man, who has faced all that the world may hold of evil with me many a time, but his driving for the first few miles was erratic. Janet, I could see, although outwardly she had recovered herself, was on the point of hysterics. I settled myself down in my corner, adjusted my horn-rimmed spectacles, and drew from the pocket of the car a new half-crown book on the principles of golf, written by a late beginner. So we traveled until we reached the inn where we stayed for the night, and late on the afternoon of the following day we arrived at our destination. There was just a bare white house, a lodge, the gate of which was held open by a great, raw-boned gillie, miles of what seemed to be interminable moor land, and below, the sea. I looked around with satisfaction.

“You're Sandy MacLane, the caretaker here?” I asked, leaning out of the car.

He made a noise which sounded like: “Oo ay!”

“Which way might the golf links be?” I inquired.

He pointed with a long and hairy forefinger.

“The clubhouse is yonder,” he vouchsafed a bit somberly “A step across the road is the fifteenth tee.”

I sighed with content.

“Come up to the house,” I ordered. “After tea I shall play few holes.”

Sir Norman Greyes Takes Up the Story

MY friend Rimmington called to see me on the night of my return from Norway. He looked around with an air of dismay at my various traveling paraphernalia.

“So you're really off, then?” he remarked.

“On the contrary, I've just returned,” I told him. “It was too late in the season to do any good, and I made a mistake in changing my river. The whole thing was a frost.”

Rimmington sighed.

“Well, I'm glad to see you back,” he declared, sinking into my easy-chair. “All the same, London in August isn't exactly a paradise!”

“Tell me about Leeds,” I suggested. “To judge from the newspapers, you seem to be having a lot of trouble about a very simple case.”

Rimmington frowned. He was silent for several moments, and glancing across at him, I noticed that he was pale and apparently out of sorts.

“I think I'm stale, Greyes,” he confessed. “The Chief pretty well hinted the same thing, and worse, when I got back last night. I really dropped round to see whether you could help me.”

“If I can, I will with pleasure,” I promised him. “You know that.”

“You read the bare account of the affair, of course,” Rimmington went on. “Two fairly credible witnesses deposed to seeing a man in a gray flannel suit, with a Panama hat pushed over his eyes, drive up in a Ford car, leave it outside Bailey's grocery stores, walk down the street and turn into the Boulevard where the bank is situated, exactly at the time that the robbery took place. Three women and two children saw him pass up the street two minutes later, and thirty seconds after that, he crossed the street and entered Bailey's grocery stores. The clerk who served him with some marmalade, tea and bacon saw him climb up into the Ford and drive away. The man was known at the shop as Ralph Roberson. There is no doubt that it was his car.

“Half an hour after the robbery, Roberson was arrested at his house,—he was cleaning the car at the time,—and although he had changed his clothes, the light gray suit which he had recently worn was discovered in his bedroom, and the Panama hat, warm with perspiration, in a cupboard. His excuse for changing his clothes was that he put on older things in which to clean the car, and his account of his morning was that he had driven straight up to Bailey's stores for some groceries, and straight back again. Two witnesses are ready to swear that they saw him get out of the Ford and go toward the bank; the grocer's clerk, who served him, is absolutely certain that he was in the shop within thirty seconds of the Ford's pulling up outside, and that when he left he drove straight away.”

“What sort of man is this Roberson?” I asked.

“A man of bad character,” was the prompt reply. “He was once a bookmaker, but failed. He has been in prison for obtaining goods by false pretenses, and there are half a dozen summonses for debt out against him at the present moment. The only little money he earns, nowadays, seems to be by acting as a bookmaker's tout. He knew the neighborhood well, and has once been heard to remark upon the isolated position of the bank. In every respect he is just the man to have done it, and yet there are all my witnesses swearing to different things. Furthermore, he had scarcely a shilling in his pocket, and he confessed that he was going to try and sell the car that afternoon to raise a little money.”

“It seems to me,” I admitted, “that you have been a little premature in framing your case against Mr. Ralph Roberson.”

“So the magistrates thought,” Rimmington rejoined dryly. “We managed to get two remands. This morning he was discharged.”

“If the grocer's assistant is telling the truth,” I remarked thoughtfully, “Roberson could not possibly have committed the robbery. What sort of young man is the assistant?”

“Highly respectable and very intelligent,” Rimmington replied. “It would be quite impossible at any time to shake his evidence.”

“So much for Mr. Ralph Roberson,” I said. “And now who else is there?”

“That's the difficulty,” Rimmington confessed. “One doesn't know where to turn. The only other two people who were about the spot at the same moment, were a man and his wife touring up to Scotland in a big Dartier car. They stopped to make some purchases at Bailey's, but neither of them alighted.”

“Any description of the man?” I asked.

“Yes, the grocer's assistant who went out to take the order remembers him. He describes him as a sporting-looking gentleman wearing a brown alpaca dust-coat and a gray Homburg hat. Such a person could not possibly have left the car and walked down the street without notice.”

“Any description of the woman?”

Rimmington shook his head.

“To tell you the truth,” he confessed, “I didn't ask for one. There were guns and cartridge-magazines and golf-clubs on the top of the car. The two were apparently motoring up to some place they had hired in Scotland.”

On the face of it, there seemed no possible connection between these tourists and a local bank robbery. Yet the thought of them lingered obstinately in my mind. A man and a woman, a bank robbery, and the fact that I was supposed to be safe in Norway! I began to take up the pieces of the puzzle once more and fit them in according to my own devices.

“You seem to have done everything possible, Rimmington,” I said at last, “but I think, as my Norway trip has fallen flat, I shall go up to Scotland for a fortnight. Would you like me to call over at Leeds and see if I can pick up anything?”

“Exactly what I hoped you would suggest,” he confessed eagerly. “I have brooded over the affair so long that I can think of nothing but the obvious side. The Chief will give you a letter to the Leeds people. Would you like me to come with you?”

I shook my head

“Better not,” I told him. “Better for me to go as a stranger.”

That night I traveled down to Leeds.....

There was nothing about the neighborhood which differed materially from Rimmington's description. I paid a visit to the place at exactly the hour the robbery had been committed, walked from the grocery store to the bank, carefully timing myself, and made some trifling purchases inside the shop. The neighborhood seemed to be thickly built over and populated in patches, but here and there were vacant lots. The land opposite the grocery was marked out for building, but operations as yet had not been be gun. Later in the day I tracked Roberson to ground in his favorite public-house. Choosing my opportunity, I addressed him.

“Are you the man whom the police made such idiots of themselves about in this bank robbery?” I asked.

“What the hell's that to do with you?” he answered.

His tone was truculent, but he obviously only needed a little humoring.

“Just this much,” I replied. “I am a journalist representing one of the picture papers. It would be worth a fiver to you if you would let me do a sketch of you.”

His manner changed at once.

“You don't want an interview?”

“Not likely,” I assured him, commencing a rough sketch in a notebook which I had put into my pocket for that purpose. “I read the case myself. A fool could see that you had nothing to do with it.”

He stopped drinking and looked at me curiously.

“If I were the police,” I went on, “I should want to know more about the two tourists.”

“If I were the police,” I went on, “I should want to know a little more about the two tourists on their way to Scotland.”

“Then you're as big a fool as the police,” he retorted gruffly. “They hadn't nothing to do with it. They were filling up with petrol and neither of them budged from the car.”

I smiled in a superior way and went on sketching. He watched me with thinly veiled anxiety.

“Toffs they were,” he went on, “on their way up for a bit of sport.”

“Maybe,” I commented. “They didn't seem in any hurry about it.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don't see why they stayed at the Queen's two nights,” I remarked.

“Who said they did?” he demanded “They stayed one night, and grumbled having to do that.”

“How do you know?” I asked, looking up at him.

“I spoke to the chauffeur,” he replied sullenly. “He told me my oil was leaking.”

I changed the subject, finished my ridiculous sketch, and handed over the five pounds. That night I caught the mail train to Scotland....

It took me less than a week to discover the whereabouts of the man and the woman who I learned were passing under the name of Mr. and Mrs. Harold Grover. On the morning after my arrival at the very remote corner of Scotand where they had taken up their temporary abode, I committed an indiscretion. I donned a knickerbocker suit and set out for a tramp over the moors. I had just clambered up to the top of a little ridge overlooking the sea, when I came face to face with a little party ascending it from the other side. The little party consisted of the person I had known chiefly as Mr. Stanfield, his wife, a villainous-looking gillie, and two dogs. It was a curious moment, full of the suggestions of tragedy, afterward ridiculous in its conventionality. I saw the flash of the man's gun, and I saw the woman's hand restrain him, heard the single word whispered in his ear. I raised my cap; he followed suit. His gun hung idly under his arm. My hand was inside my breast-pocket, clutching something hard.

“What an extraordinary meeting!” Janet exclaimed with a faint smile. “So you sometimes take a holiday also, Sir Norman?”

“Sometimes,” I admitted. “I came home unexpectedly from Norway. I was disappointed in my fishing.”

“Are you aweer that you're trespassing, mon?” the gillie demanded severely.

“I'm afraid I didn't know it,” I replied. “There were no notices.”

“It doesn't matter,” Janet intervened. “We happen to be walking up a covey of birds this way.”

“I put nothing up,” I assured them.

“They lie verra close hereabouts,” the gillie observed. “We'll take a little further sweep.”

“How long are you staying in these parts, Sir Norman?” Stanfield inquired.

“About a week, if I like the golf,” I answered.

“I've taken the Lodge, down there,” he pointed out. “Call and see us before you leave.”

“Wont you come and dine with us tonight?” Janet invited, with a challenge in her eyes.

I hesitated. The invitation appealed to me in one way as much as it repelled me in another. Stanfield watched me as though he were reading my thoughts.

“You need not take salt,” he said grimly.

“I shall be delighted,” I assented. “About eight o'clock I suppose?”

“Not 'about,' I implore you,” Janet answered earnestly. “Sandy shall catch you some trout this afternoon, and they must be served to the second. Say a quarter to eight, please.”

“I will be punctual,” I promised.

I SPENT the afternoon wandering about the moor, inspecting the golf links and speaking on the telephone. Punctually at twenty minutes to eight I passed up the long, neglected drive and presented myself at the front door of the somber-looking house. The summons of a harsh bell was answered almost immediately by an immaculate butler. Janet, from the other end of the cool white hall, came forward to meet me. The dinner was well cooked; the champagne was excellent; and my host, with a twinkle in his eyes, called my attention to the fact that it was opened in my presence. As soon as the last course was concluded, Janet led the way out onto the flagged terrace, where a table was already arranged with dessert and coffee.

“You are a brave man, Sir Norman,” my hostess said abruptly.

“Why?” I asked.

“You know—and you alone—that I once killed a man—although you don't altogether know why,” she went on softly. “How do you know that I have not within me the makings of a modern Lucrezia? I have read quite a good deal about poisons,—I may be said even to have studied the subject,—and you have delivered yourself into my hands.”

“Why should you poison me?” I argued. “I will do both you and your husband the credit to believe that you don't bear malice. Revenge is a senseless sentiment.”

My host leaned forward in his chair. His face was solemn and brooding.

“You have things against me dating from far back,” he said.

I nodded.

“But I am in the same position as Scotland Yard,” I reminded him. “For those things I have no case. For those misdemeanors of which I suspect you in the past, I could at the present moment go only so far as to procure a warrant charging you with feloniously wounding a police inspector. For the rest, I suspect but I have no proof.”

“You suspect what?” he asked.

I shook my head.

“There are limits to my candor,” I protested mildly. “You must admit that I am not secretive or unduly aloof, inasmuch as I dine at your table, discuss your peccadilloes and pass on, like an ordinary guest. What I may suspect of the past I keep to myself. I am your enemy, and you know it. If it pays you to attempt to murder me, I imagine you will try.”

“Janet would desert me if I did,” he declared with a grim smile. “She finds these little conferences with you so inspiring.”

She looked at me with that wonderful smile of hers. She was a little way behind a pillar, and her face was hidden from her husband.

“I do not like to hear you say that we are enemies,” she murmured. “I would rather think that we are like the soldiers who fight in two opposing armies. We fight because it is our duty. So we are enemies because it is our duty. Even that does not interfere with personal feelings.”

“That is true,” I admitted carelessly. “I could never absolutely dislike a man who played such good golf as your husband.”

“And what about me?” she demanded.

“You drive me to be obvious,” I replied. “No one could possibly dislike a person who contributed to the beauty of the world.”

She laughed softly.

“Why, you are a courtier, Sir Norman,” she declared. “Your compliments and the perfume of those roses and the flavor of the Benedictine are getting into my head. I begin to picture you as the serpent who has crawled into this Utopian paradise.”

“Talking about golf,” her husband intervened in a harsh tone, “what about a game, Sir Norman? Will you play me tomorrow morning?”

“With pleasure,” I assented.

“At ten o'clock?'

“I will be in the clubhouse,” I promised him.

“We go to bed, up here,” he remarked, “practically with the sun.”

I rose to my feet. I took my leave, and as I walked down the drive, with the yellow moon shining through the sparse trees, I felt the ghosts of tragedy gathering.

AT five minutes to ten on the following morning I watched Mr. James Stanfield push open his private gate leading onto the links, and stroll across toward the clubhouse. I waved my hand and stepped back into the locker-room. Three or four men in tweeds and golfing outfit were waiting there. In five minutes my prospective opponent entered. In five seconds the handcuffs were upon his wrists, and one of the three apparent golfers had the matter in hand.

“You are charged,” he said, “with feloniously wounding William Harmell, manager, and John Stokes, clerk, of Brown's Bank in the Menwood Road, Leeds, and with stealing from the premises the sum of seven thousand pounds. I should recommend you to come with us quietly, and to reserve, for the present, anything you may have to say.”

Looking at him as he stood leaning a little against his own locker, I could have sworn that there was no manner of change in the face or expression of my enemy. He ignored the others and looked across at me.

“This is your doing?” he asked.

“Altogether,” I admitted.

“You knew it—last night?”

“It was you who reminded me that I need not take salt,” I replied.

He nodded.

“The trick is to you,” he confessed “I am ready, gentlemen.”

He walked quietly out to a waiting motorcar, with a burly policeman on either side of him, and a very important man from Scotland Yard in the party. Rimmington and I were left behind, and presently we essayed a round of golf. All the time my eyes kept straying toward the Lodge. No sign, however, came from there.

“I still,” Rimmington remarked, as we waited for a few minutes on the tenth tee, “don't quite understand how you tumbled to this affair so quickly.”

“It was quite easy when you once admit the possibility of the occupants of the Dartier car being concerned,” I replied. “Of course, Roberson was in it up to the eyes. It was Stanfield who drove up in Roberson's Ford and went direct to the bank. The Dartier car was already there, containing Janet Stanfield and Roberson, wearing a gray Homburg hat and a linen duster. The chauffeur brought into the store a small order which the grocer's assistant packed and took out. The chauffeur was taking advantage of the delay to fill up with petrol. The moment Stanfield descended and made his way to the bank, Roberson slipped off his linen duster, produced a Panama hat which he pulled over his eyes, and made his purchases in the shop. He came out just as Stanfield reappeared, and drove the Ford away. Stanfield just stepped into the Dartier, put on his linen duster and gray Homburg hat, and off they started. The idea was to confuse, and at first it succeeded. The whole affair was ingenious, from the selection of that particular bank, which is wickedly isolated, to the exact location of the Dartier car which made anyone on the off-side almost invisible.”

“It's pretty generous of you to let me take the credit of this,” Rimmington remarked.

“If Stanfield turns out to be Pugsley, and Pugsley the man I believe him to be,” I said, “I shall need no other reward than the joy of having brought him to book.”

“Do you believe him to be Michael Sayers?” Rimmington asked.

“I am absolutely certain of it,” I answered.

We completed our round, lunched and played again. There came no sign from the Lodge. Somehow or other, the silence seemed to me ominous. Toward evening I began to get uneasy. Just as we were sitting down to dinner, I was fetched to the telephone.

“Inspector McCall speaking,” the voice I heard declared. “Are you Sir Norman Greyes?”

“Yes,” I answered.

“Have you heard the news?”

“I have heard no particular news since early this morning,” I replied.

“Stanfield escaped eleven miles from here,” the Inspector declared gloomily.

“Escaped? Ridiculous!” I exclaimed.

“He did it, anyhow. He shot both his guards with an automatic pistol fixed in the sole of one shoe and worked with the toe of the other. Mr. Gorman, from Scotland Yard, is seriously wounded, and one of the others is shot in the leg. Stanfield then threatened the driver until he released him from the handcuffs and took him to within a mile of a railway station. There he tied the man up, drove the car on himself and disappeared. So far we have no news.”

I COULD make no intelligible reply. I muttered something to the effect that Rimmington and I would come on to the police station the first thing in the morning. Then I walked outside, a little giddy, sick at heart, furious with myself and Fate. I stood looking toward the Lodge until at last I yielded to an irresistible impulse. I hastened across the few yards of heather-grown common, crossed the road, made my way up the straggling avenue and rang the great front-door bell. Presently the huge door swung silently open. Janet stood there, looking out at me.

I freely admit that I lost my nerve. I lost my poise, and with it all the gifts which enable a man to face an exceptional situation. For this woman showed no signs of any mental disturbance. I had never seen her look more beautiful. She moved away from the door.

“Come in,” she invited. “I have been expecting you.”

Our footsteps awakened strange echoes in the hall. She led the way into the sitting-room which opened onto the terrace, and sank back on the divan, where apparently she had been resting.

“Judas!” she murmured.

“You know, then?” I demanded harshly.

“Everything—even the last little episode. What fools you policemen are!”

“He isn't safe yet,” I muttered.

She laughed mockingly.

“I worry no more about him,” she declared. “It is not an equal struggle. I worry only about myself, alone here.”

“Alone—here!” I echoed.

She nodded.

“Harding, our butler-chauffeur and confederate, has taken the car—where, you can guess. Our gillie broke his leg this morning and has gone to hospital. I am not afraid of burglars, but I am terrified of mice, and the place is overrun with them. Also I simply loathe the idea of having to get up and make my own coffee in the morning.”

I rose to my feet.

“There are empty rooms at the Dormy House,” I told her, “where you could obtain service and be made quite comfortable. I am going back now. Shall I bespeak one for you?”

“You would really have me there,” she asked curiously, “under the same roof as your august and respectable self?”

“Why not?”

“The wife of a famous criminal,” she reminded me, “the wife of the man whom you have betrayed! You and I share a secret too, don't we? Would you vouch for my—respectability?”

I MOVED a step toward her. Her eyes were filled with a mingled light, a light of allurement and cruelty. Her lips were moist and quivering—was it with anger? A long bare arm was withdrawn from behind her head..... Then a voice fell upon the throbbing silence like a douche of cold water.

“Hands up—like lightning!”

I obeyed. I recognized the voice of the man in Harding's livery. It was Stanfield, who had crept in upon us unheard.

“A mixture of Lothario and Inspector Bucket!” he mocked. “Any prayers to say?”

“If you are going to shoot, let's have it over quickly,” I answered.

The woman stepped between us.

“Don't be absurd,” she said to the newcomer. “We couldn't afford to part with Sir Norman. Life would be too dull without him. Put him on parole. He is perfectly trustworthy.”

“You are right,” Stanfield admitted. “Take your choice, Greyes—twelve hours' silence, or Eternity.”

“I will be silent for twelve hours,” I promised.

He pointed to the door.

“I cannot have the last few hours I may ever spend with my wife disturbed,” he said. “Kindly leave us.”

I went. There was a mist before eyes, a cloud befogging my brain.

Rimmington was sitting on the porch smoking, when I got back. He moved his head toward the Lodge. It was obvious from his dejection that he too had heard from McCall.

“What do you think about taking a look round there?” he suggested.

“Quite useless,” I replied tersely. “Let's have a game of billiards and try and forget the whole damned business.”

A new exploit of Sir Norman in pursuit of the arch criminal Michael Sayers will be described in the forthcoming March issue.