THE WHODUNIT COLLECTION: British Murder Mysteries (15 Novels in One Volume). Charles Norris Williamson
I've got him.... Now then All right, driver. Scotland Yard."
It was as though they were handling a bale of goods, so neatly and impersonally was the whole thing effected. Cincinnati Red had been for once taken off his guard. He was more staggered than his manner showed. That the police should know of his presence in London was not astonishing. It was to be expected. That they should know exactly where to lay hands on him was a different thing. He thought he had covered his traces effectually that no one could guess that Wilfred S. Whiffen, who lived unostentatiously and well at Palace Avenue was Cincinnati Red, whose record occupied a prominent place in the police registers of half a dozen countries. What puzzled him still more was the mere fact that even knowing him, the police should trouble to arrest him. Since his arrival in England there was nothing they could hold against him, as far as he knew. He was as dead certain as he cared to be about anything that none of his victims had invoked the aid of the law.
The only reasonable supposition was that this was a sort of bluff that was intended to frighten him out of the country. He resolved to sit tight.
"If you people really are police officers," he declared acidly, "this foolishness will cost you your positions. I may tell you I am well known in the best circles both here and in New York."
His captors remained unimpressed. Cincinnati Red had been "rubbed down "before and he recognised the touch of efficient hands. One of the officers thrust a hand into his breast pocket and produced the derringer.
"Handy little thing, Alf," he commented.
"Will you answer me, my man?" said Cincinnati, accentuating every word slowly. "Am I under arrest, and if so, what for. I insist on being told. You will hear more of this." He was annoyed in reality and a vague alarm was growing in his breast.
"You keep quiet, old lad," said one of his captors with more familiarity than was consistent with the status of Wilfred S. Whiffen, whatever it might be with Cincinnati Red. "You'll learn all about it soon enough. Nobody's going to hurt you."
"That isn't the point. I insist upon knowing what all this is about. I have an appointment with Lord Windermere and--"
"He will talk," interrupted one of the officers wearily. "Say, sonny, suppose you give it a rest for five minutes. Lord Windermere will have to wait. Oh! Here we are."
Very few criminals are taken to Scotland Yard on detention, whatever the reader of popular fiction is accustomed to suppose. And that fact gave Cincinnati Red something to surmise upon as he was ushered into the soft-carpeted room where Weir Menzies and Heldon Foyle awaited him.
They both rose with the welcoming smile of old acquaintances. His escort had vanished. "That you?" said Foyle, beaming. "Say, I'm glad to see you, Cincinnati. You're looking top hole, too."
"Sit right down," added Menzies. "Hope you've not been put to any inconvenience. We told our chaps not to alarm you."
Cincinnati Red looked from one to the other, suspicion working behind his bland countenance. He had in his time passed through the hands of both the detectives and it was useless keeping up the pose he had adopted with the younger men. Still this assumption of friendliness was beyond him.
"Well, you've got me here, gentlemen," he said suavely. "I didn't invite myself and I've got business to attend to." He pulled off his gloves and dangled them in one hand. "It's rather rough on a man when he has achieved a position for himself and is on the level again--"
"And you're on the level," said Menzies, rolling a pen between his thumb and finger. "Well, I think it is a shame to drag an honest workingman "his eye wandered meditatively over Cincinnati's faultless evening dress "away from his j ob especially as the night clubs will soon be open. What line of commerce have you established yourself in?"
Cincinnati returned his glance more hurt than angry. Foyle struck in before he could reply.
"Let him alone, Menzies. What'll you have, Cincinnati? I've got some of the real rye here or would you prefer anything else?"
It is unusual for an officer of the C. I. to work with his desk flanked with a decanter of rye whisky. It is still more unusual for him to profer hospitality to a crook in the very headquarters of police. Cincinnati became wary. He did not know what was going to happen, but he wanted to keep his head clear.
"Nothing, I thank you," he said.
"Just as you like. I thought you might like a drink while we had a talk over things."
Cincinnati knew as well as the men who faced him that the whole proceedings were totally irregular. They had no shadow of right to detain him while no charge was hanging over his head. He would have been justified in walking straight out of the building. Yet he knew Foyle and he knew Menzies, and he knew, in spite of their apparent friendliness, things might become unpleasant if he took a high line. He flicked a speck of dust off his boots with his glove.
"Don't be shy," he urged.
"Where's Ling?" questioned Menzies abruptly. His ruddy face had lost its good nature. He was leaning forward with hard, fierce eyes barely a couple of inches from the "con "man's face. The quickness of the question and harshness of his manner were all carefully calculated to make an impression that would throw the other off his balance.
Cincinnati seemed unperturbed. "So you're hunting up Ling. What's he been doing? On my soul I wish I could help you. I don't like Ling."
There was a moment's silence. Then Foyle twisted his swivel chair and lifted one of a row of speakingtubes behind him. It was a simple, undramatic action, but somehow the "con "man's pulse beats quickened. The superintendent paused with the tube in his hand.
"You've got a clean sheet, of course?" he asked, and his voice, though quiet, was threatening. "Nothing we can hold you for? Or shall I put a wire through to Rome and Paris and New York?"
Now there had been incidents in Cincinnati Red's career as in those of every professional crook wherein the law had not claimed the penalty which was its due. It sometimes happens that only the most grave of a series of crimes is selected for definite legal punishment. There were cases that still might be proceeded with against the "con "man if the blue-eyed superintendent chose to induce his international colleagues to rake the cold ashes together.
"Don't rush a man," protested Cincinnati Red, a little less coolly. "I was saying that I'd help you if I could."
"Then get down to it," snapped Menzies. "We're in a hurry."
"The sweat box "is an institution unknown in English police circles. Nevertheless, the "con "man found certain similarities in the conduct of the swift and relentless examination of the two detectives. They gave him little time for invention even had he been disposed to mislead them. But like most of his type he put his own skin first, even if it came to betraying an acquaintance into the hands of justice.
"Guess I'll have a drink, after all," he said. He swallowed a draught Foyle handed him in a quick gulp. "I'll trust you not to let any of the boys know I have said anything," he declared. "I saw Ling about a week ago and I've known he had something big on for some months. You gentlemen know that I used to have considerable dealings with him. He'd shoot on sight if he guessed...."
"You were one of the layers down in that forged circular note stunt of his," remarked Menzies. "Yes, we know all about that. Five years you got in Paris, wasn't it?"
"Three," corrected Cincinnati. "You'd have thought," he went on with more bitterness, "that he'd have let me in on the ground floor of any fresh job, seeing how I had the brunt of that. If it hadn't been for an accident we'd have made a pile. But no. He said they were full up."
The two detectives exchanged glances. Cincinnati Red, clever man though he was, had always been viewed with a certain amount of not altogether unjustified distrust by his associates in the underworld. The phrase in the letter warning Gwennie not to trust Cincinnati too much occurred to them.
"A lucky thing for you, too," observed Foyle. "Go on."
"Well, whatever the job is Gwennie Lyne is in it. Ling said he might