Kate plus 10
“I think so, sir,” said the man in surprise, fumbled in his pocket and
produced the orange slip.
“I am sending you two tickets for the theatre to-night. May not be
home until to-morrow. Pretherston.”
Thus read the wire, which had been handed in at the Strand Office.
Beston sensed some difficulty.
“I hope it’s all right, sir,” he asked anxiously.
“Quite all right,” replied Michael with a cheerful nod. “Don’t wait
for me now, I shall not be in very long.”
He mounted the carpeted stairs, opened the door of his flat and closed
it carefully behind him. He went straight to his study, pulled down
the blinds and drew the thick curtains across the windows, then he
turned on the light, took up the telephone and gave a Treasury number.
“Is that Sergeant Pears?” he asked. “Is there a telegram waiting at
the Yard for me?”
“Yes, sir,” said the sergeant’s voice.
Michael winked at the wall.
“Do you mind opening and reading it?”
There was a little pause and then the sergeant repeated into the
receiver:
“To Inspector Michael Pretherston, Scotland House. Come up by the
earliest train. Am staying at Adelphi. T.B.”
“Handed in at Manchester, I suppose?”
“Yes, sir,” said the sergeant, “at three-fifteen.”
“Is the chief in Manchester?”
“Yes, sir; he went by the morning train.”
“Excellent,” said Michael, “thank you very much, sergeant.”
He hung up the receiver.
This was Kate’s work--the beautiful detail of it, the knowledge she
possessed of T.B. Smith’s movement. She had probably sent a man up on
the same train with the chief and had given him the telegram in
advance, with exact instructions as to the minute it was to be handed
in. Yes, it was Kate. Yet (he became uncomfortable at the thought) it
was not like her to leave things to chance. How came she to miss him
at the Yard? He returned to the telephone and again called up his
assistant.
“What time did the telegram arrive?” he asked.
The sergeant’s voice was apologetic.
“I am very sorry, sir, I am afraid it arrived while you were here,
this afternoon. It was given to a messenger to take in to you and in
some extraordinary way the constable forgot it. I have reprimanded
him.”
“That’s all right,” said Michael, relieved.
His relief, curiously founded, he might have found it difficult to
explain. It was the relief which the matador feels when he sees the
bull, which steps so proudly into the ring, will put up a good fight.
It was the relief of the huntsman when a strong fox breaks from
covert. He wanted Kate and that extraordinary organization, which he
had set himself to conquer, to be at its best that his victory might
be the more satisfactory.
He looked at his watch. It was five minutes past eight. He knew that
his visitor would give the servants an hour and he must employ that
hour profitably. He began to write rapidly on a pad of scribbling
paper, tearing off the sheets as fast as he had filled them. He had
been working for an hour when he heard a bell tinkle. Some one was at
the front door. He switched out the light, walked into the passage (he
had already removed his shoes) and listened. Whoever was coming had
sent an agent in advance to discover whether the flat was empty. Again
the bell rang. Michael made no sign. It rang a third and last time.
The detective made his way stealthily to the window and slipped behind
the curtains. He had left his study door open, so that he could hear
every sound. He had ten minutes to wait before the faint click of the
lock told him that the door had been opened. He knew that the visitor
would come to the study last, and he proved to be right. Three minutes
passed--as near as he could judge--before he caught the flash of a
lamp which was directed cautiously to the curtained window. The light
passed slowly along the floor until it reached the skirting, travelled
round until it found the lower edge of the drawn curtain. Through the
slit he had cut in the heavy velvet hangings Michael witnessed the
search. Presently the light went out after focussing itself upon the
electric switch. There was a click and the room was illuminated.
The girl who stood by the desk was soberly dressed and was apparently
in no hurry. She pulled her gloves off slowly, whilst she allowed her
eyes to rove over the littered table. Half a dozen sheets of writing
attracted her attention and when her gloves were removed she picked
the papers up, pulled the big writing chair to the table and sat down
to read. She read the notes through carefully and once she smiled.
When she had finished she put them down, leaned back in the chair and
looked around the room, then,
“Come out, Mike,” she said.
Michael stepped forth without embarrassment.
“I was nearly deceived,” she said, “with your precious account of the
happening at Sebo’s and then I realized that this could not have been
written more than five minutes before. You forgot to blot the last
sheet and the ink is still damp.”
She rubbed her fingers over to prove the fact.
“Why aren’t you in Manchester?” she asked.
The staggering question nearly took his breath away.
“Well, if you aren’t the real Kate!” he said admiringly.
“I’m in your chair I’m afraid,” she said.
“Not a bit.”
He dropped into a deep settee.
“Now tell me all the news. But before we go any farther,” he said with
mock concern, “wouldn’t you like a chaperone?”
“Don’t worry,” she replied, “I have a chaperone.”
“Not in my flat I hope,” he said in a tone of alarm. “You, I can
trust, Kate, but the idea of your low thieving friends being up
against all my movable goods gives me a little pain.”
She fished in her bag and produced a little gold case. She opened it
and took out a cigarette.
“You won’t have one, of course?”
“Not one of yours, Kate,” he said reproachfully. “No, I’ll have one of
my own if you don’t mind.”
“I think you are very rude,” she said with a lift of her brows.
“It’s better to be rudely awake than politely asleep,” he said
meaningly. “When one has to deal with clever criminals one has to take
all sorts of precautions.”
She laughed and looked at him curiously.
“I wonder what made you a policeman?”
“Nature,” he said promptly.
She was puzzled.
“I don’t quite get your humor,” she said.
“Nature provides all things with some form of protection. It gives the
oyster its shell and the tiger its stripes. It gives the squid his
ink-sack and the shark his teeth. Nature always produces antidotes.
When criminals are stupid they have stupid policemen to deal with
them. When criminals are extraordinarily clever, Nature provides the
police force with an officer of unusual intelligence. I came to the
police in blind obedience to the laws of Nature.”
She laughed softly in his face.
“It’s so nice to be able to discuss things with a man of sensibility,”
she said. “Of course, some of my friends are awfully clever and uncle
is very philosophical, but then they all take a very one-sided view of
things, and I think it’s so much better to hear the other side of
every question. You can get two views on all subjects except crime,”
she went on. “If you believe in Darwin’s theory you can meet hosts of
clever people who bitterly oppose it. If you are a Christian Scientist
you can meet hosts of Theosophists. Even if you are a firm believer in
monogamy you can generally hire a Mormon to argue on the other side.
It is only when we come down to crime that you meet the truly insular
view, held by people who know nothing whatever about its finesse, or
the genius necessary to break the laws without leaving a big hole to
show where you went in and another to show where you came out. That is
why I like you, Mike,” she said frankly.
“Any appreciation is very gratifying to me,” said Michael, “but that
which is so enthusiastic that it leads my admirer to break into my
flat to ravish my secret thoughts, is a little overwhelming.”
“I wanted to know what you were saying about me,” she said, “though I
ought to have known that you would not leave things about for me to
read--still,” she justified herself, “to do myself justice, I did not
expect to find your confidential reports on your desk.”
There was a big safe in one corner of the room.
“I was going to open that.”
She nodded toward the strong-box.
“You saw me the other night,” she turned the conversation suddenly.
“At Sebo’s--yes,” he said, “I saw you.”
“What did you think?” she asked quietly.
“I thought you were with the loquacious Mr. Boltover for a special
reason of your own,” he said slowly.
“He _is_ an orator,--isn’t he?” she agreed,--“but he’s quite a nice
boy, really. God didn’t give him brains and it’s not fair to make fun
of a man’s deficiencies.”
“What did you want of Reggie?” asked Michael.
“I just wanted to know all about him,” she said, “that kind of people
are always interesting to me.”
“What did you want of Reggie?” he asked again.
“How insistent you are!” she laughed.
She got up and began strolling about the room, taking down books from
the big bookshelf and examining their titles.
“What catholic tastes you have, Mike--and Tennyson, too. How
depraved!”
“You will find a Browning somewhere,” he said carelessly.
“That’s more encouraging,” she smiled. “It’s an awfully comfortable
room. Quite like the room I thought you would have.”
She looked at a book plate on the cover of one volume.
“You were at Winchester, I see. So was uncle.”
“The poison and the antidote!”
“You are not fair with uncle. He’s a mental degenerate, too. Crime is
a disease with him.”
“And with you?” said Michael quickly.
“It’s a hobby. It’s a tremendous excitement.”
She put the book down and turned to him.
“You don’t know what it’s like. To work things out and make them
happen, to cover a couple of sheets of paper with writing and then see
all sorts of things move in obedience to those instructions, to see
thousands and tens of thousands of pounds change hands, to know that
men are going long journeys, that special trains are being run, that
telegraph wires are humming all over the Continent, that a dozen
brilliant thief-catchers are working and worrying in a vain attempt to
undo all that twenty or thirty lines of writing have done.”
“This will be used in evidence against you,” warned Michael
flippantly.
The girl was not posing. Of that he was convinced. Her big grey eyes
were brighter, her whole face was alight with the excitement of the
thought, her voice had a new thrill. She was exalted, transfigured at
the thought of the power which her shrewd brain gave to her.
“What did you want of Reggie?” he asked again.
The light faded out of her eyes and she was her normal self again.
“Oh, I wanted to pick his pocket,” she said mockingly; “or, no, I know
something better--I wanted to marry him. He’s worth two millions.”
“I don’t think you will ever marry for money,” said Michael.
“What makes you say that?” she asked quickly.
He shrugged his shoulders.
“That is the estimate I have formed of you. I may be wrong.”
“I shall never marry,” she said with decision. “I’m not of the
marrying kind. I hate men in some ways. I hate them so much, that it
gives me a real joy to take away the one thing in the world that they
really love. You know the Claude Duval tradition--I mean the idealized
Claude Duval of tradition, not the sneak-thief valet of actuality--of
robbing the rich and never robbing the poor--well, I rob men, and I
never rob women.”
“In fact you rob the people who have the money,” said Michael. “That
isn’t clever.”
“No, but it sounds awfully good. I’m thinking of including it in the
great speech I shall deliver one of these days at the Old Bailey.”
“What did you want from Reggie?” he asked.
“You are almost monotonous,” she laughed. “Well, I wanted