Chapter XII

Mr. Bird was discussing in a casual way the gang murder which had scarcely agitated Scotland Yard.

“I saw the photograph of that other bird in this morning’s paper,” he said. “Looks like the leadin’ man in _Saved from the Sea_--that’s a great film, superintendent: you ought to see it. Brought tears to my eyes, and I’m no light crier.” He knitted his brows. “Maybe it wasn’t that picture at all. Have you got the feller?”

Superintendent Kalley shook his head.

“No, nor are we likely to. If we roused Lewing from the dead he’d swear he didn’t recognize the man who knifed him. This other fellow will be the same.”

The Sparrow pursed his lips.

“I’d like to go over and take a look at this invalid--is he going to die?”

Kalley spread out his hands, thereby expressing his complete indifference.

“God knows! But I wouldn’t advise you to break in on Gennett’s ‘manor’--he’s rather touchy, and he’s got charge of the case.”

Professional etiquette therefore kept Mr. Bird from the casualty ward of St. Thomas’s Hospital. He found, however, a copy of the statement that the dying man had made. It was brief and unilluminative.

I do not know who killed Lewing. I was with him when he was stabbed, but I only know him slightly. I should not recognize any of the men; they were strangers to me and I did not see their faces.

Beneath this was a note in brackets:

“This man refuses to give his name.”

The Sparrow read and was slightly amused. He did not like the inspector in charge of the case.

“Gennett’s going to tie himself into knots over this--good luck to him!”

Later that afternoon he met Miss Mary Bolford by arrangement, and they had tea together. For the Sparrow was of an age when he could with impunity meet the prettiest and the youngest of girls without exciting any other comment than the one he employed himself.

“We’re a regular Beauty and the Beast show, me and you, Miss Bolford. How did you get on?”

“With Mrs. Maddison?” Mary sighed and shook her head. “I don’t know. It made me feel quite unpleasant. They quarrelled on the day of their marriage. Of course I don’t know why.”

“Maybe the brother,” said the inspector. “You know what relations are----”

“But he’s dead.”

The Sparrow nodded solemnly.

They were in one of the busiest teashops in the Charing Cross area, and all the time customers were coming and going. Mr. Bird had secured for himself a small table in an alcove, and from here he commanded a view of the shop door. There was no especial reason why he should take this trouble, for he neither expected friends nor enemies. He was, however, intensely interested in his fellow humans, and, moreover, he cherished a dream that some day a man badly wanted by the police--any man would do--and for whom they had searched in vain, would walk into his view. He was something of an optimist.

“Quarrelled, eh? That’s a warning to you, young Mary Bolford--never get married. I was only saying to-day----”

She saw his mouth and eyes open in astonishment. He was staring at the door, and, turning her head, she looked.

A man had strolled into the café, his felt hat at the back of his head, his hands in his pockets. He was rather dour-looking, and yet his face was strikingly attractive.

“Well, well, well!” muttered Mr. Bird. “This is where Justice falls off the top of the Old Bailey and hits the man they couldn’t hang.”

“Who is he?” she whispered.

“A bad lad,” replied the Sparrow under his breath. “Want to meet him?”

She nodded, and at that moment the eyes of the stranger and the detective met. A slow smile dawned in the saturnine face, and at the request of Mr. Bird’s beckoning finger he came slowly across, took off his hat when he saw the girl, and, after a moment’s hesitation, sat down.

“Hullo, Gunner!” said the Sparrow, mildly reproachful. “Have you broke jail?”

“I certainly have,” smiled Gunner Haynes, and calling a waitress to him ordered coffee.

“A friend of mine--a newspaper lady,” introduced the Sparrow. “Being a member of that unlawful profession, she can meet the best jewel thief in England without blushing!”

She met the Gunner’s amused eyes and smiled.

“In case you don’t know who I am,” said Haynes ironically.

“They quashed that conviction?” And, when the Gunner nodded, Mr. Bird emitted a long and extravagant groan. “I’ve lost my faith in the court of appeal,” he said despairingly. “I know exactly why you were in the hotel, whose sparklers you were after--there’s no justice in the world, Gunner.”

The Gunner stirred the coffee that the waitress had brought, and laughed. It was a soft, musical laugh, altogether out of character with the man she saw.

“You had a poor case, Mr. Bird, and you’ll be the first to admit it. I’d like to meet that man that tried to--do me a turn.”

“You were going to say ‘warn you.’” The Sparrow looked at him keenly. “Well, you can’t, because he’s on his honeymoon.”

“Maddison, wasn’t it? I remember the name. Is he the banker? You can answer freely, Mr. Bird: I’m not going to touch him. He’s got a good mark in my book.”

“That’ll get him to heaven,” said Bird sardonically, and then became his businesslike self. “What’s the game now, Gunner? Are you a reforming character? If you are, I’ll give you a ticket for the Prisoners’ Home of Rest.”

But Gunner Haynes was not listening.

“Who did he marry--that pretty girl that was at the dinner that night, sitting at the head of the table? Gosh! she was lovely! Reminded me of----”

He stopped dead and Mary Bolford saw his face twitch.

“--somebody I knew. Good luck to them!”

“Wish them good luck separately,” said Mary Bolford; “they parted on their wedding day.”

He looked at her quickly.

“What did she do to him?” he asked, and in spite of herself Mary Bolford laughed.

“You’re assuming a lot, aren’t you? Doesn’t it strike you that he may have done something pretty awful?”

He shook his head.

“That kind of man couldn’t do anything pretty awful--I’m telling you, young lady! I know men; I understand the good in them and the bad in them--I’ve lived on men all my life; my knowledge of their weaknesses and their strengths has been my only asset. I don’t understand women. And that’s where you’re wrong, Bird--I’m telling you this over the table--I wasn’t after that woman’s stuff, though I admit I was curious to see it. I was after a diamond bracelet as big as a leg-iron. There was an old fool staying there who was mad about an actress--or at least she called herself an actress, but I’ve seen her! He must have been a hundred--maybe a hundred and twenty. No, I’ve got money enough to live on.” He glanced slyly at the Sparrow. “Money enough to buy a machine gun and justify my title. Where’s this man Maddison?”

He addressed Mary Bolford.

“Ask me,” snapped the Sparrow, his cold eyes upon the crook. “I’m the information bureau round here! If you want to tell the story of your life, I dare say Miss Bolford will fix it for you, but I didn’t bring you in here to make light conversation, Gunner.”

Haynes saw the little look of pain that came to the girl’s eyes and laughed.

“He’s right--of course he’s right,” he said. “Let me give you a word of advice, Miss Bolford.” His voice was strangely gentle; even the Sparrow looked at him a little astonished. “Never be afraid of hurting a crook’s feelings, because you can’t. A man who’s had ten minutes’ conversation with the police after his arrest, when they’re not certain where the stuff is hidden, has been insulted by experts!”

The Sparrow nodded gravely.

“Before you get sympathetic with an ex-convict,” the Gunner went on, “find out what he’s been in for--and, what’s more important, how many times he’s been in. It doesn’t matter what his crime is: if he’s been in twice you can cut him out as an object of pity--I’ve been in three times.”

The eyes were smiling, but the mouth was strangely hard. He was looking at the girl all the time, drinking in her fresh, unspoiled beauty. He turned with a sudden jerk, raised his finger to the waitress and took the check. Then he rose, offering his hand to the Sparrow.

“Bird and I are in the same war.” He was talking to the girl. “Only we’re on different sides. My side always loses, but has most of the fun.”

With a jerk of his head he turned, walked slowly across the shop and disappeared into the street.