White Face by Edgar Wallace

Author:Edgar Wallace [Wallace, Edgar]
Format: epub
Tags: Mystery & Crime
Published: 2010-06-19T13:37:27.546000+00:00

CHAPTER XII

Superintendent Mason boasted that he could sleep anywhere at any time. He certainly needed a considerable amount of rousing when the police car reached Scotland Yard.

As for Michael Quigley, he had never felt less sleepy in his life, and the coffee which was brought to the superintendent's room was as a stimulant quite unnecessary. It brought Mr. Mason to irritable life.

His complaint was that, at whatever hour of the day or night he arrived at Scotland Yard, he was certain to find some official document waiting for his attention. There were half a dozen minutes warningly inscribed and heavily sealed.

"They can wait till the morning." He examined the two or three telephone messages that were on his desk, but they told him nothing new. There was no news from Bray. It was a quarter of an hour later that Elk and his superior had their interview with the Landors.

Michael looked at his watch. It was too late to go to bed. He wanted to see Janice early in the morning.

"You can call back and I'll tell you anything that's going," said Mason. "About that ring, Michael: I'm afraid we shall have to have a little talk with the young lady. I'll make it as pleasant as possible. Maybe you can arrange for us to meet—I don't want to bring her down to the Yard, because that would rattle her."

Michael was grateful for this concession. Ever since he had told Mason the truth about the ring, a dull little shadow of worry had rested in his mind.

"You're a pretty nice man for a policeman, Mason."

"I'm a pretty nice man for any kind of job," said the superintendent.

Michael strolled out on to the Embankment and up through Northumberland Avenue. He had reached Trafalgar Square and was standing at the corner of the Strand, wondering whether it would be sensible to go home and snatch a few hours' sleep, or whether to call at his club, which was open till four o'clock, when a taxicab went rapidly past him in the direction of the Admiralty gate. Midnight taxicabs either crawl or fly, and this one was moving quickly—not so swift, however, that he did not glimpse a familiar figure sitting on the box, a pipe clenched between his teeth. If he had been moving more slowly Michael would have hailed old Gregory Wicks.

"Did you want a cab, Mr. Quigley?" It was a a policeman by his side; Michael was fairly well known to this division. "No, thank you."

"I thought you were trying to stop that driver. They take liberties, those fellows."

Michael laughed.

"That was an old friend of mine. I suppose you know him—old Gregory Wicks?"

"Gregory, eh?" The policeman was a middle-aged man who knew his West End extremely well. "The old fellow's getting about again. I hadn't seen him for months till I saw him the other night sleeping on his box at the corner of Orange Street. He lost a good fare that night. I wanted him to take Mr. Gasso down to Scotland Yard to make a statement—I was in that case," he added a little proudly.

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