CHAPTER

IF ESTON HAD RETURNED TO LONDON there were ways and means of smoking him out. Part of the way back to town, Garfield occupied with pencil and paper. Long before they reached the western outskirts, he had drawn up instructions that on his arrival at Scotland Yard would be flashed over the private wires to every one of the two hundred police stations in the metropolis.

      There are more than six hundred detectives in London, to say nothing of twenty thousand or more of the uniformed force. The instructions would automatically reach both, but it was on the Criminal Investigation Department that Garfield chiefly relied. Velvet Fred was, in the hackneyed phrase, well known to the police, and Jim, who had assisted in overpowering one of Garfield's staff, was perhaps not less well known as "Knuckleduster"—a young international crook who had played a prominent part in several bank "hold-ups" in the United States, and was believed to be a leading spirit in several daring diamond robberies that had been effected in London.

      Eston himself was only a name to most detectives; he was too clever to have ever become familiar to his natural enemies. Yet he had an awkward team to handle and if the police could only lay hapds upon one of them, Garfield though no believer in third degree methods, yet had his own ways of persuasion.

      Wade dropped off the car at Hammersmith. He was still in flannels and as there remained work for him to do that evening, he took the opportunity to change.

      Later in the evening he turned up, a big-built, well-groomed man, in scrupulous evening dress over which he wore a light coat, in the West End. Half a dozen men west and east were on a similar quest to his—not excluding Garfield himself.

      It is only on very exceptional occasions that detectives take a risk of facial disguise. The danger of using stage properties in public are too great. The real art of the detective is to camouflage himself so that he is not too obvious or obtrusive among his surroundings. Wade was going to rake, the West End—therefore he wore evening dress, but to anyone who knew him, he was just the same old Wade. If he had been going east, he, would have had a dirty face, uncombed hair, untidy clothes and a muffler instead of a white collar.

      Steadily, systematically, he worked his way through a series of saloon bars, restaurants, and night clubs. At most of them he was recognized; at very few did he refuse to take a drink with some friendly acquaintance or other. In some cases, indeed, he deliberately sought out men and invited them to drink with him. None refused, although in some cases, there was a shade of nervousness or constraint in their manner.

      Wade drank much that night—chiefly ginger ale. For weeks afterwards the very thought of ginger ale sickened him. He had need of all his wits and he did not propose to drown them.

      The men he selected to drink with were mainly asociates, or possible intimates, of Velvet Fred or Knuckleduster. Wade had no airs. He might be a detective by profession, but this, he led those with whom he consorted to believe, was his night-off and he was just a good fellow among good fellows. Somehow, however, the conversation always swung round to either one or both of Eston's two assistants.

      "Talking of that," Wade would observe genially, "I haven't heard of young Knuckleduster lately. How's he getting along? Well, here's how," and he would tilt his glass for another drink.

      There is a hoary lie that there is honor among thieves. There is sometimes community of interest among thieves, but there is never honor. If there were, half the effectiveness of the detective forces of the world would be swept away. The backbone of all efficient detective work is the informant who sometimes volunteers information. and is sometimes sought out as Wade was now seeking him. Seldom is there any reluctance to talk, save through fear of selfinterest. Every man with whom Wade, spoke that evening guessed that the, detective's casual inquiry had something behind it, yet they were willing enough to talk so long as they themselves were not concerned.

      Although the detective learned much of which he made a mental note for future reference, he gained little to his immediate purpose for some hours. After a time, however, he strolled into a little public house in the network of streets between Oxford Street and Leicester Square and his eyes roved casually round the habitués.

      A thin, weedy-looking youth caught that glance and immediately tried to melt among a group of people at one of the little tables. Wade smiled beneath his mustache and moved forward, looking anywhere but in the direction of the youth. The other sighed heavily with relief and tried to make an unobtrusive exit. He had about reached the door when Wade's hand fell on his shoulder and he started violently.

      "Feeling pretty shy to-night, Jack. What are you trying to dodge me for?"

      "Why, it's Mr. Wade!" Jack made an effort to conceal profound astonishment. "I wasn't trying to dodge you, sir. I was just going."

      Wade tucked his arm through that of his victim and felt him shivering like a tracked rabbit. "So I see," he remarked pleasantly. "Well, there's no need to be in a hurry. Come and have one with me. Don't get wind up, my lad. I've got nothing against you just now."

      "Sure, Mr. Wade," agreed Jack obsequiously, but disengaging his arm with a certain relief. "This is our man. What'll you 'ave? "

      "Dry ginger, please," said Wade with inward nausea. "I'm on the water wagon for a bit. Well, here's luck. How's things going with you?"

      For a while conversation rambled round various points until at last Wade brought, it to a definite question.

      "Knuckleduster?" repeated Jack echoing the name. "Why, yes. He's about. I saw him tonight—not half an hour ago."

      "Ah," Wade fingered his drink, outwardly with only perfunctory interest in the conversation, inwardly with tense watchfulness. "Iwas wondering what had happened to him. Where did you see him!"

      "He was 'aving dinner with a baby doll up at Duller's in Piccadilly. We didn't speak. He seemed to be enjoying himself and I didn't want to interfere."

      "That so? Glad he's managing to keep out of worse mischief," said Wade. "Well, I must be off, Jack. Early to bed and early to rise, you know—well, so long." He nodded and strolled out.

      Duller's—which is not its real name—is a well-known restaurant, lavish of gilt and plate glass and beloved of suburban residents who "see life" in town once in a while. Wade kept his eyes open as he made his way thither, and delayed long enough to pick two plain-clothesmen off their patrols. He was not afraid to tackle Knuckleduster singlehanded, but he believed in taking precautions. If the crook caught sight of him too soon, he might make a bolt and it was as well to have the exits guarded.

      Posting his men at the doors, he walked into the restaurant. The manager hastened forward to greet him. Wade was a well-known figure in places of this kind.

      "Just lookin' for a friend of mine, said the detective. "It will be all right. You leave me alone."

      It was on the basement floor that he at last found Knuckleduster. The young gentleman was seated at a table with the lady Wade's. informant had described as a baby doll—a young lady with a very loud laugh, bright blue eyes and a somewhat transparent green frock. They had reached the liqueur stage and Knuckleduster was leaning across the table in an amorous attempt to make the lady take a sip from his crème-de-menthe when his jaw dropped and he stiffened in his chair.

      "It's all right, Knuckleduster," said Wade, quietly dropping into a seat, facing him. "I'm not a ghost."

      There was a tinkle of glass as Knuckleduster's hand dropped heavily on the table. Yet he turned fierce fighting eyes on the detective. "I don't know you," he said defiantly. "Who in blazes are you, and what do you mean buttin' in on us like this?"

      "Sock 'im in the jaw," advised his inamorata considerately.

      "You've got a short memory, Knuckleduster, "said Wade quietly. "My name's Wade. I'm a police officer. If the lady will be kind enough to leave us for a little while, I want to talk over some business with you. I've just come from Twyford," he added meaningly.

      Knuckleduster's manner changed. "Oh, all right, Mr. Wade. Take no notice of Gwennie. She's liable to get excited. I'll just see her off the premises and then we'll have that talk."

      "Sit right down," advised Wade quietly, but with a note of command in his voice. "Gwennie can find her own way out, I believe. You'll have to excuse us, my dear. This is all going to be very private."

      "Right. Beat it, Gwen," ordered Knuckleduster, and settled himself defiantly in his chair.

      The girl looked from one man to the other, and then, with a shrug of her shoulders and a shrill laugh, left them. Wade waited until she was out of earshot.

      "Im afraid I've got to take you in, Knuckleduster," he said.

      "What for?" The other was brusque. "You ain't got nothing on me, an' you know it."

      "I don't know what you call nothing," said Wade, "but if a little thing like beating up a police officer with a sandbag is nothing, you're on. I've got the goods on you, laddie, and it's no good putting up a squeal. "

      "You're a liar, 11 said Knuckleduster bluntly. "I ain't been near Twyford to-day and I can prove it. "

      "How did you know this assault took place at Twyford?" retorted Wade. "Don't be a condemned fool! Why, I can easily identify you—you and Eston and Velvet Fred. You're for it good and proper this time."

      "I'll wait till you prove it," declared the other. He was the type of criminal that always believed the other man was bluffing until it came to a show-down.

      "That may not be necessary," said Wade. "We've got it on you, and you were a sucker to come out to-night. If you're a sensible man, though, it won't need to go much farther. I'd hate to have to jug a man like you. Why can't we talk this over as between pals—you and I and the guv'nor?"

      "Come 'across," said Knuckleduster suspiciously, "don't take you."

      Wade looked him squarely in the eyes. "Oh yes, you do," he answered firmly.

      "You're asking me to squeal on Eston."

      "I'm asking you to save your own skin. You're up against it, Knuckleduster, and you know it. Are you going with the rest of 'em or are you going to take a chance and give us a straight griffin?"

      Kmuckleduster's jaw set hard and he met Wade's eyes with a gaze as straight as his own. "Let's get this without any camouflage," hesaid. "If I cough up all I know, you'll let me make a clean get-away?"

      Wade hesitated. It is a ticklish business getting a statement from a man implicated in a crime. The law is a jealous taskmaster.

      "That all depends, "he parried. "We might pass over this affair at Twyford if—if there's nothing else. The man isn't very seriously hurt. "

      "You gotta give me a clean sheet," persisted Knuckleduster.

      "Not on your life," said Wade. "You can talk or you can keep your trap shut, which you like. If you do the last, you'll take what's coming to you. What about it?"

      "Nope!" declared Knuckleduster and shut his jaws tight.

      "Well, "said Wade smoothly, no trace of the chagrin he felt in his face, "I think we'd better be taking a walk along, Knuckleduster."

      Arm in arm, like two intimate friends engaged in intimate conversation, the two men walked through the crowded dining-rooms and out of the restaurant.