Flynn’s Weekly. Vol. 22, No. 3, March 5, 1927

“You got the number, did you? Good!” replied Bracebridge. “What was it?”

“LQ585,” Replied the officer confidently.

I

“Hello — something up!” exclaimed Inspector Bracebridge.

Crook raised his eyes and directed them toward a doorway a little distance along the street. Some one, a shopman, had dashed out excitedly, and two or three passers-by were pausing to stare at him, while from the corner beyond a policeman approached with guarded briskness.

“Policemen are more sinned against than sinning,” commented Crook, “but I wish some one would teach them to run first and ask questions afterward. What’s cur excited man pointing at?”

“A car, I think,” barked the inspector. “Well, I can run, if policemen can’t!”

He dashed forward, and Crook, following, gazed along the road. A car, dark red, was just disappearing, and the policeman was pausing in response to the shopman’s cries and gesticulations.

“Go after it, go after it!” shouted the shopman. “Stop that car, somebody!” Then he saw the approaching inspector, and turned to him wildly. “He’s a thief! He came into my shop, and when my back was turned — God knows what he’s taken!”

Crook glanced at the shop. It was a jeweler’s. Above was written the name, “T. Wheeler. Goldsmith and Silversmith,” and, judged by his display of emotion, the excited man outside was probably T. Wheeler himself.

The policeman, by this time, had banished his vagueness, and catching sight of the inspector, he bustled through the gathering knot of people and saluted.

“We’ll get that car, sir,” he said confidently. “I know the number.”

“You do? Good! What was it?” replied Bracebridge.

“LQ585. I saw it draw up. As a matter of fact, the driver spoke to me—”

“Then you can identify him?”

“Yes, sir. Common-lookin’ man, dirty black suit—”

“That’s the one!” cried the jeweler. “He came in my shop, and while my back was turned—”

“Well, we won’t catch him if we stand here talking,” interrupted Bracebridge sharply. He blew a shrill blast on his whistle, and as he did so a young man stepped up to him quietly from the side of the road.

“Can I be of any use?” he asked. “I’ve got a car here. I saw the way the fellow went.”

“Splendid, sir! Just what we want!” He beckoned to the policeman. “Tumble in. We’ll want you to identify the man and the car. Quick, now! We’ll see he doesn’t get far!” Then he swung round to Crook and raised his eyebrows. “Want to come with us, eh?”

“I think I could be more useful at this end,” replied Crook. “I can tell any further policemen or officers what’s happened, if they come along, and I can get the rest of the story.”

“Right, right!” nodded the inspector approvingly, as he sprang into the waiting car. “That’s the idea. Carry on. You’ve my authority for whatever you think wise to do.”

The next moment the car glided swiftly away in the direction of the vanished dark red car, and Crook turned to the jeweler.

“Shall we go inside?” he asked. “Then you can tell me the whole story.”

“Yes, yes! But—”

“Don’t worry about the chase. That’s already in progress, and, as you can see, there are plenty on the job.” Other policemen had arrived, and, directed by one particularly energetic young constable, were getting busy.

“It’s a dark red car, and we know the number — LQ585,” the energetic young constable was saying. “Got that? Right. Common man, about my ’eight. Dark brown ’air, and a big nose. Wearin’ a black suit, very dirty one, and black boots. Got that? Right. Bowler ’at, a bit the worse for wear. Now, then, get busy. Spread around, boys. Right!”

Crook approached him, and touched him on the shoulder.

“I’m going into the shop, constable,” he said. “Will you join me in a minute? I’m getting the full story for Inspector Bracebridge.”

“Very good, sir,” answered the constable. “Jest want to get these chaps started — with you in a jiffy.”

As Crook entered the shop he reflected, “There’s a man working for promotion — and I should say he’ll get it.” Then he turned his attention to the jeweler.

“He came in here,” the jeweler was spluttering, “and while my back was turned—”

“Yes, but let me hear the whole thing, from the beginning,” interposed Crook. “Did he enter as an ordinary customer, or what?”

“That’s right,” replied the jeweler, wiping his damp forehead. “The rascal! I don’t know even yet all he’s taken. Look — there’s a couple of rings gone from that case!

“By God, I hope they catch him. Eh? Oh, yes! I was saying — he came in, and asked for a cheap watch. What he would ask for. Looked cheap himself. I showed him two or three, but he didn’t like them, so I went to fetch another. And that was when he did it. While my back was turned.

“Used to this sort of game, I should say, he was so quick and noiseless. When I turned round again, he wasn’t here. Out in a flash. And then I saw some things missing — ah, here comes some one. Another policeman. What’s the good of his coming here? Why in the world doesn’t he use his head and go after—”

Crook held up his hand to interrupt the jeweler’s excited flow, as the smart young constable entered.

“Done all I can for the moment outside, sir,” he reported. “One of my mates is carrying on out there. Sometimes they come back to the spot they started from. Old dodge. Straightforward case, I should say.”

“It seems so,” answered the detective, and repeated, briefly, what the jeweler had told him. “And now I’d like to ask you a question or two, constable, if I may. You had the description of the thief pretty pat. How did you get such a close sight of him?”

“Well, I was standing by when he drove up and spoke to my mate,” said the constable.

“Oh — the first constable,” nodded Crook. “You mean the one to whom he spoke?”

“That’s right, sir.”

“Did you hear what he said?”

“Yes, sir. It was at the corner. Up he drives, and stops sudden. ‘Nice little car,’ I thinks—”

“You had some reason for thinking that?”

“Yes, sir. The man looked a bit shabby to be driving it.”

“He might have been a chauffeur.”

“Wasn’t dressed like one.”

“In mufti?”

The constable shook his head. “You can spot a chauffeur on ’ollerday, just as you can a coachman,” he observed. “This wasn’t no chauffeur.”

“I agree,” said Crook, smiling. “You’re quite smart.” The constable tried unsuccessfully not to look pleased. “Well, go on. ‘Nice little car,’ you thought. And then?”

“Then the feller speaks. ‘Can you tell me the time?’ he asks. My mate points to a big clock across the road. ‘Oh, I didn’t see it,’ says this feller. ‘Thanks.’ And off he goes again—”

“To pull up almost at once outside this shop?”

“You’ve got it, sir. That’s what the feller does. And I say to my mate, ‘Funny thing to stop and ask the time like that.’ And my mate says, ‘Very funny thing.’ We both think it funny.”

“What about his voice? Anything special? You could recognize that, too?”

“Spoke a bit low, that’s all I can say about his voice. ’Allo — what’s this now?”

The constable on duty outside had suddenly opened the door and was calling.

“You’re wanted out ’ere,” he announced.

II

They hurried out, and found themselves facing an elderly man, who was gesticulating angrily.

“Yes, of course it was my car!” he exclaimed. “I left it up that by-street over there — Dixon Street — while I was making a business call. When I came out, it was gone.”

“The car the thief went off in evidently belongs to this gentleman, sir,” said the policeman on duty outside to Crook.

“No doubt about it,” cried the owner, in agitation. “By Jove, the audacity of these rascals! And now, I understand, he’s stolen some jewelry as well!”

“He has,” responded Detective Crook. “But let me try and get this clear. When did you leave your car up that by-street?”

“Half an hour ago.”

“Was it outside the place where you made your business call?”

“No. That wasn’t in Dixon Street. That was at a bank in Belfort Avenue, where one can’t park one’s car.”

“And you returned — after how long?”

“I returned three minutes ago. So I was away about twenty-five minutes.”

“During which time,” said Crook thoughtfully, “our thief saw your car, got into it, drove it away, returned, spoke to a policeman at the corner, pulled up outside this jeweler’s shop, committed his theft, and departed.”

“Sounds like that, sir,” remarked the smart constable.

“It all fits exactly. By the way, I suppose you’ve identified your car by the number?” Crook asked, looking inquiringly at the elderly man.

“Oh, yes. LQ585. That’s the number right enough. Armstrong-Siddeley. Dark red body.”

“That’s the one, sir,” nodded the smart constable. “No doubt about it.”

Detective Crook considered the position. The facts seemed simple enough. Yet there were one or two points that puzzled him.

All at once he smiled and turned to the smart constable.

“Are you free to come along with me?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” answered the constable promptly. “Everything’s done that can be done here, I think, and my mates can carry on.”

“Yes, but what about my car?” cried the elderly man.

“Quite twelve people are already looking for it,” answered Crook. “I feel quite sure it will be found. But, meanwhile, if you want to report the loss further, you can do so at the police station.”

“Ah, I will,” said the owner. “A nice thing, in a country that’s supposed to be properly protected, you can’t leave your car for half an hour without having it stolen!”

“There have certainly been a number of car thefts lately,” responded Crook. “You’re not the only victim, sir. Come, constable.”

As Crook and the constable walked along the street the latter restrained his curiosity admirably. He gathered that the detective had some plan, and, being anxious to impress one for whom he had a profound respect, he maintained a calm and imperturbable attitude.

It was the detective himself who broke the silence.

“Anything odd occur to you about this case?” he inquired.

The constable tried hard to think of something odd, and reiterated his surprise that so common a man should have been driving so smart a car.

“I don’t think there’s much in that,” observed Detective Crook. “But wasn’t there something else that struck you?”

“Yes, sir, there was — as I said,” answered the policeman. “His stopping in the middle of the road to ask the time. When there was a clock, too. Yes, we thought that funny. That’s right, we did.”

“Only funny?”

“I beg your pardon, sir?”

“Not, perhaps, significant?”

The constable scratched his head.

“He asked you the time,” proceeded Crook, “and, two or three minutes afterward, committed a daring theft.”

“Maybe he needed to know the time, to keep some appointment with an accomplice,” suggested the constable, after a pause.

“In that case,” responded Crook, “why choose a policeman to ask?”

“Ah, there you have me,” admitted the constable, ruefully. “That’s got me beat.”

He wondered to himself whether it had got the detective beat too, and came to the conclusion that it had not. But what the detective had deduced, the humble policeman had not the slightest knowledge.

For about ten minutes they wandered around the streets, following some scheme of the detective’s. They never went through any street twice, and appeared to be making some sort of a pattern. All at once the detective stopped, and laid his hand on his companion’s sleeve.

“Well — what about that?” he said.

The constable stared. There, some way ahead of them, blinked the rear of a car. The car was stationary, and a ray of sunlight slanted glaringly on the number plate. The number was LQ585.

“Got him!” muttered the constable, looking at the detective with something akin to awe.

“Are you certain?” replied Crook. “Look at him — and then tell me whether you still think we’ve got him.”

As the detective spoke he laid his hand on the constable’s arm, and drew him quickly into the shadow of a porch. From this vantage point, the constable regarded the man in the car.

This was no common man wearing an old black suit and a bowler hat. He was smart and dapper, with a little waxed mustache. Moreover, he did not seem to have a care in the world as, taking a brown bag from the seat, he alighted on the pavement, walked briskly up three steps to a front door and rang.

A few seconds later the door opened and he was admitted.

“Well, I’m blowed!” murmured the constable frankly.

“That wasn’t your man, was it?” asked Crook.

“Nothing like ’im, sir.”

“Are you sure it’s the car?”

“Yes, it’s the car, right enough. Dark red. Of course,” he added suddenly, “they might have tinkered with the number plate—”

“No — steady!” whispered Crook, as the constable made a forward movement. “Stay still!”

The constable opened his eyes wide.

“But ’adn’t we better—”

III

The constable paused abruptly, as he saw the detective looking in another direction. Some one was approaching, swiftly and quietly, round a corner of the street.

“Is that your man?” asked Crook in a low voice.

“By George — yes!” muttered the constable. “That’s the feller. Know ’is coat anywhere—”

“Sh!”

The newcomer was close to them now, but he did not see them. He was too intent upon the car, and was moving toward it swiftly and silently. Evidently he believed he had the road to himself. It was a quiet road, and only the unseen watchers shared it with him.

The constable fidgeted, despite himself. He could not understand his companion’s impassivity.

“When shall we take ’im, sir?” the policeman whispered.

“Not yet,” Crook whispered back.

“But ’e’ll get away again.”

“I don’t think so. Sh!”

The man had reached the car now. Hurriedly he darted a glance at the house into which the dapper man had disappeared. Then he jumped into the car and started the engine.

“Quick!” exclaimed the constable.

But Crook still held back.

“We’ll lose ’im!” gasped the constable.

“Lose a distinctive car like that?” replied the detective. “Its description and number known? And the hue and cry already out?”

The situation was too much for the policeman, however. He raced out into the road, and shouted. The car was already in second gear. Now it glided into third, and was almost out of sight round a bend.

The constable roared with chagrin. For a moment he lost all his love for Detective Crook, and wrote him down an ass. Yes, they would probably catch the car, but would he, Constable T. Biggs, with aspirations, be in at the death? He groaned as he ran forward — and the next instant something hooted behind him.

“What’s happened?” cried a familiar voice.

It was Inspector Bracebridge, who had just driven up with his party. Constable Biggs turned, and waved wildly.

“Just gone on there!” he panted. “Give me the slip. But you’ll get him—”

The inspector’s car leaped forward. As it disappeared in pursuit, Constable Biggs turned and saw Detective Crook emerge from the shadows. The detective was smiling grimly.

The chase, in which neither Crook nor Constable Biggs took part, was not as short as it might have been, for the man who was driving the dark red car showed the dexterity both of experience and desperation.

He turned and twisted, dashed madly along straight roads, and dodged round corners at startling speed in his efforts to give his pursuers the slip.

But the young man who was driving the pursuing car was also an expert driver, and others soon joined in the chase. Shouts were raised, police whistles sounded, and the hunted man realized at last that his capture was unavoidable. Abruptly, he slowed down, and made no further effort to escape.

“Got you!” cried Bracebridge, as they reached him, and a crowd gathered round. “Do you want to say anything here, or will you come along?”

The captured man looked at the inspector, and at the crowd, and shrugged his shoulders.

“Oh, I’ll come along,” he muttered.

“Game’s up.”

“Yes, I’m afraid it is,” answered Bracebridge acidly, and suddenly looked at the prisoner more closely. “Hello! So it’s you, Alf!”

“It’s me,” admitted that gentleman.

“Not the first time you’ve been interested in taking cars that aren’t yours,” proceeded the inspector. “But I didn’t know jewelry was in your line.”

“Go on!” grunted Alf. “Who’s got any jewelry?”

He was caught, but the capture did not turn out to be as complete or as satisfactory as they had hoped. They could find no jewelry on him, nor could they discover it concealed in the car.

Alf solemnly denied that he had taken any, and watched their searching with cynical leers. Even when he was conveyed to the police station, and official pressure was brought to bear upon him, he maintained his jeering, unproductive attitude.

“Jewelry!” he scoffed. “There’s a silly idea. Oh, I’ve got a lot of jewels on me, I ’ave!”

“We’ll find them!” retorted Bracebridge, trying not to give way to exasperation. “Meanwhile, you don’t deny, I suppose, that you’ve tried to take a car that wasn’t yours?”

“Oh, I don’t deny that,” said Alf. “It looked so nice and ’andy. ’Course, if I’d seen any jewelry lyin’ about, I might ’ave taken that, too — but I didn’t ’appen to.”

“Not in Wheeler’s shop?”

“Where’s that?”

“We’ll have the jeweler himself along in a few minutes to identify you,” exclaimed the inspector crossly. “Meanwhile, here’s one constable who can do it. Is this the man who asked you the time, Brown?”

Constable Brown stepped forward.

“Same feller,” he announced. “And I told ’im to look at the clock.”

Alf gazed at the constable, and laughed.

“You think you’re clever, don’t you?” he observed. “What’s the funny idea? I never asked you the time.”

“Yes, you did,” asserted the constable. “Just before you went into the shop to steal the jewels.”

“Did I?” jeered Alf. “Then I must ’ave been a mug. You’re off your nut, cocky.”

“Do you deny that you entered the jeweler’s shop at all?” demanded the inspector.

“Course, I do!”

“Really? Well, here comes some one who may have something to say on that subject,” said the inspector, as Mr. Wheeler, goldsmith and silversmith, was announced.

There was a short pause between the announcing and the actual appearance of Mr. Wheeler. When the jeweler entered the room, he found twelve people rowed up in front of him. The inspector asked whether he recognized any of them.

“Of course, I do!” exclaimed the jeweler warmly. “I recognize the rascal who walked off with my jewelry! Thank God you’ve got him!” and he pointed accusingly to Alf.

“Quite sure of your man?” queried the inspector. “No doubt about him?”

“Quite sure. Absolutely!”

“It’s a mistake to be quite sure, absolutely,” observed a quiet voice, “unless you really are quite sure, absolutely.”

Detective Crook had entered, followed by Constable Biggs. The inspector wheeled round sharply, and the jeweler frowned indignantly.

“But I tell you I am sure!” he cried.

“Yes, there’s no doubt about it,” the inspector corroborated. “We’ve caught our man.”

“Well, that’s rather odd,” responded the detective, while Constable Biggs quietly smiled, “because I’ve caught him, too. And I’ve caught something else, as well.”

The inspector tugged his ample mustache, and looked puzzled. Constable Biggs’s smile grew. He was being in at the death, after all.

“May I put a few questions to the prisoner?” asked Crook, breaking a short silence.

“Carry on,” nodded the inspector. “I think I’d like you to, if it’s going to clear things up.”

“Thank you,” said Crook, and turned toward Alf. “I suppose you’ve told them a story they don’t believe?” Alf growled affirmatively. “What was the story?”

“Why, that I took the car, and nothing else,” replied Alf. “But they’ve got some lunatic idea that I went into a jeweler’s shop and carted off a bagful of diamonds.”

“And you deny that?”

“Course I do!”

“Why did you take the car?”

Alf considered for a moment.

“We all want a car these days, don’t we? This looked a nice one, and I thought it’d be cheap!”

“Car-stealing is a little habit of yours, isn’t it?”

“That’s my business.”

“Well, if it’s true, you needn’t deny it. You see, you’ve really got quite a reputation — among your friends as well as your enemies — and—” He paused. “I’m still waiting to hear how you came to take that car.”

“What do you mean?” demanded Alf. He now looked puzzled also.

“Was it entirely your own idea? Or did some one, who knew your little propensity, suggest it to you?”

Light began to dawn on Alf’s face.

“Well — one needn’t mention names, but some one did give me the tip,” he responded slowly. “He told me yesterday of a toff he knew, and gave me the time and place. He’d got wind of an appointment the toff was going to keep in a nice, quiet road—”

“And he acted the part of the toff himself,” interposed Crook. “It was he who drove up to the house outside which you found that car.”

“What?” roared Alf.

“Yes. And he carried a bag in which were some valuable jewels he had just acquired by rather doubtful methods. In that bag, also, were some clothes very similar to yours. He’d worn them when committing the theft, in the hope that you would be suspected — as you were.”

“This beats me,” muttered Alf venomously, while the others stared. “Are you tellin’ me that Tod’s done the double cross on me?”

“I am afraid Tod tried to, but it didn’t quite come off,” replied Detective Crook. “Dressed and disguised as you, he stole the car from Dixon Street, a by-street near the jeweler’s shop, made himself and the car prominent, committed the theft, and then, cleverly eluding the police, transformed himself into the toff who eventually drew up at a house in your ‘nice, quiet street.’

“This house was sufficiently near the jeweler’s shop to make it reasonably certain you would be caught after you had taken the car — for the chase would already be in progress, you see — and your doubtful record was to complete the evidence against you. Meanwhile, he meant to slip away with his precious brown bag, and make his escape.”

“But, unluckily for Tod,” interposed Constable Biggs, “we slips after ’im. We caught ’im as he was leaving the house after a bogus call. We’ve got ’im ’and-cuffed outside — and ’ere’s the evidence against ’im, in this bag.”

“Is my jewelry there?” exclaimed the jeweler excitedly.

“It is,” the detective assured him. “So you see, Mr. Wheeler, one can never be quite sure and positive, can one?”

“Blimy, one can’t,” cried Alf vehemently. “If Tod comes out after me, ’e’ll find me waitin’ for ’im!”