Elk 04 White Face by Edgar Wallace Read Free Book Online Page A

where matters of very considerable interest were to be discussed. His thoughts being so centred, it was not unlikely that he should miss seeing the fugitive.
    A certain Harry Lamborn, who was by trade a general larcenist, and who at that moment was standing in the shelter of a deeply-recessed door on the opposite side of the road, had less excuse, except that his eye was on the approaching copper and that he had little interest in ordinary civilians. That night he had certain plans connected with No. 7 warehouse of the Eastern Trading Company, and he was waiting for P.C. Hartford to reach the end of his beat and return before he put them into operation.
    He watched the constable’s leisurely stride, drew back still farther into the recess which afforded him freedom from observation and protection from the falling rain, and transferred a collapsible jemmy from one pocket to another for greater comfort.
    Hartford could not help seeing the man in evening dress. He stood squarely in the middle of the sidewalk, wiping the mud from his black overcoat. Instantly Hartford descended from the dais of Vice-Templar and became a human police constable.
    “Had a fall, sir?” he asked cheerfully.
    The man turned a good-looking face to the officer and smiled. Yet he was not wholly amused, for his hands were trembling violently and the whiteness of his lips was in odd contrast to his sunburnt face. And when he spoke he was so breathless that the words came in gasps. Rain had been falling; there was a brown, muddy patch on his overcoat. He looked backward, the way he had come, and seemed relieved when he saw nobody.
    “Have I had a fall?” he repeated. “Well, I think I have.”
    He looked past the constable. “Did you see the man?”
    Police-Constable Hartford looked back along the deserted stretch of pavement.
    “Which man?” he asked, and the other seemed surprised.
    “He went your way; he must have passed you.”
    Hartford shook his head.
    “No, sir, nobody’s passed me.”
    The white-lipped man was sceptical.
    “Did he do anything?” asked Hartford.
    “Did he do anything?” The stranger had a trick of repeating questions and tinging them with contempt. “He punched me in the jaw, if that’s anything. I played possum.” His face twisted in a smile. “Scared him—I hope.”
    He gave a certain emphasis to the last words. Police-Constable Hartford surveyed him with greater interest.
    “Would you like to charge the man?” he asked.
    The other was fixing his white silk neck-cloth and shook his head.
    “Do you think you could find him if I charged him?” he asked sarcastically. “No; let him go.”
    “A stranger to you, sir?”
    P.C. Hartford had not handled a case for a month and was loath to let his fingers slide off the smooth edge of this.
    “No; I know him.”
    “There’s a bad crowd about here,” began Hartford. “A drunken, dissipated–-“
    “I know him, I tell you.” The stranger was impatient.
    He dived his hand into an inside pocket, took out a silver case and opened it. P.C. Hartford stood by while the man lit his cigarette, and noticed that the hand which held the patent lighter was shaking.
    “Here’s a drink for you.”
    Hartford bridled, and waved aside the proffered coin.
    “I neither touch, taste nor ‘andle,” he said virtuously, and stood ready to pass on his majestic way.
    The stranger unbuttoned his coat and felt in his waistcoat pocket.
    “Lost anything?”
    “Nothing,” said the other with satisfaction.
    He blew a cloud of smoke, nodded, and they separated.
    The man in evening dress came slowly to where a granite-paved roadway bisected the path before the gates of the Eastern Trading Company. The thief in the covered doorway saw him take his cigarette from his mouth, drop it on the pavement and put his foot upon it. And then, suddenly and without warning, he saw the white-faced man stagger; his knees gave from under him and he went down with a crash to the sidewalk.
    Lamborn was