“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.