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BEquest or
ORMA FITCH. BUTLER, PH.D., "07
-----Essor or -----
-----------------------------
IIITITITITTTTTTTTTTTTTTTIII
-
B














THE MURDER ON THE BUS


By the Same Author
THE BoDY IN THE SAFE
THE THREE DAGGERs


The
MURDER ON THE BUS
By P
CECIL FREEMAN GREGG
LIN COL N MAC W E A GH
THE DIAL PRESS
NEW YOR K . M C M XXX
Lon GMANs, GREEN AND co., Toronto





cº-tº-º-º:
§
At 2 ... “ tºv
ºriar-reg
II.
III.
V.
VI.
VII.
VIII.
IX.
XI.
XII.
XIII.
XIV.
XV.
XVI.
XVII.
XVIII.
4 27, , ; 3%
CONTENTS
IN WIHICH A LETTER IS DELIVERED TO
SCOTLAND YARD - - - - - -
IN WEHICH CONSTABLE SUMMERS COM-
MENCES OPERATIONS - - - - -
IN WEHICH A CORONER SAYS A FEW WORDS
IN WEHICH INSPECTOR HIGGINS ASKS A
FEw QUESTIONS - - - - - -
IN WIHICH DOCTOR PAPE VOICES AN
OPINION - - - - - - - -
IN WEHICH DOCTOR PAPE IS SURPRISED .
IN WEHICH INSPECTOR HIGGINS TAKES A
BUS-RIDE - - - - - - - -
IN WEHICH INSPECTOR HIGGINS ENTERS
AN EMPTY HOUSE . - - - - -
IN WIHICH A PIECE OF WOOD COMES IN
HANDY . - - - - - - - -
IN WEIICH A DISCOVERY IS MADE - -
IN WIHICH A YOUNG LADY IS SENT HOME
IN WEHICH THE YOUNG LADY RETURNS .
IN WEHICH THE INSPECTOR SHOWS HIS
PACES - - - - - - - - -
IN WEHICH HE MEETS AN OLD FRIEND .
IN WIHICH HE MEETS ANOTHER OLD
FRIEND . - - - - - - - -
IN WHICH TWO MEN GET VERY DIRTY .
IN WEHICH THERE IS SOME LOCAL RIVALRY
IN WEHICH A CAR IS BORROWED . - -
Page
II
I9
28
45
52
6I
67
74
82
96
IO3
III
II9
I28
136
I44
vii





THE
MURDER ON THE BUS
CHAPTER I
IN WEIICH A LETTER IS DELIVERED TO SCOTLAND YARD
TALL, broad-shouldered, athletic-looking man
walked briskly through the entrance gates of Scotland
Yard, acknowledging with a smile and a quick touching of
his hat the elaborate salute of the constable on duty.
“Morning!”
“Good morning, sir.”
Inspector Cuthbert Higgins passed quickly through the
courtyard. He was immaculately dressed as usual—his
clothes seemingly a part of his personality. Everything
toned. He looked more like a successful City man than
what he actually was—a detective-inspector of the Metro-
politan Police; yet, had Fate or his inclination been
different, it is extremely probable that he would have
been a success in any profession which he might have
undertaken. Painstaking rather than brilliant; distrustful
of intuition, yet not afraid to take a chance; preferred to
wait rather than jump to a faulty conclusion; would make
any sacrifice on the altar of Duty—which word he always
spelled with a capital D.
His hurry was not occasioned by reason of lateness
—he had risen above such petty restrictions—being merely
characteristic of the man. He reached his private office,
II


I2 THE MURDER ON THE BUS
.
hung his hat upon a peg, thrust his walking-stick into a
stand in the corner of the room, and leisurely removed his
overcoat, flicking over the letters upon his desk interestedly
whilst so doing. He hung his coat on the hook under-
neath his hat, then seated himself at his desk. He pulled
out his pipe, which he slowly filled, took out his automatic
lighter, rubbed the flint, was surprised and inwardly de-
lighted when a tiny flame rewarded his efforts, shielded
the flame as if he were trying to light the pipe in a gale of
wind, puffed at the mouthpiece of his pipe at a rapid
rate which slowly decreased as the tobacco burned more
evenly, then shook out the flame and pulled his chair more
closely to the desk.
His day had begun.
Carefully and methodically, with a dagger paper-knife
(which had a history of its own) he slit the envelope of
each letter until all had been opened. Then he began a
perusal of the respective contents, separating the matter
into subjects. Suddenly he stopped and re-read a letter
extracted from a buff-coloured envelope on the top of
which was printed “On His Majesty's Service,” but which
bore no date-stamp. He rang a bell, the button to operate
which being conveniently to hand. A uniformed messenger
appeared in response to his summons.
“This letter from the Dead-Letter Office. Delivered
by hand. When did it arrive?”
“Ten minutes before you came, sir.”
“Thanks. In future please put the time of receipt upon
such letters. Send—er—what's that new man's name?”
“Summers, sir?”
“That's the fellow. Send Summers to me.” He nodded
dismissal to the messenger, then resumed his perusal of
the letter, in question. There was a timid knock at his
door, and following his curt “Come in " a man entered
and stood respectfully at attention before the inspector's
desk.
A tall man of about twenty-four years of age, erect
*


A LETTER TO SCOTLAND YARD I3
and self-assured, intelligent-looking, yet possibly inex-
perienced.
“You asked for me, sir?”—respectfully.
Inspector Higgins handed the letter with its envelope
to the waiting man.
“Read that. Then tell me what you make of it.”
The man took the envelope and withdrew therefrom
a letter with another envelope. He read the letter.
To the Metropolitan Police,
Scotland Yard, S.W.I.
Dear Sirs,
The enclosed letter, addressed to your good selves
as above, was found inside another envelope which was
opened by the Dead-Letter Office by reason of the insuffi-
ciency of its address. It was sealed as it is now, and, in
case the matter is urgent, I am sending it to you by
special messenger.
Yours faithfully,
For the Comptroller,
Dead-Letter Office,
D. R.
Constable Summers then turned his attention to the
other envelope, which Inspector Higgins had already
opened and the contents of which he had already digested.
To the Metropolitan Police.
I am going to do myself in. You fellers know
me—Henry Hamper. I’m sick of it all. I’m sorry for
what I’ve done but not for what I’m going to do. The
address is Bulstroade's Buildings. Don't come with a
naked light unless you want to meet me in hell now,
instead of in a few years' time. Our meeting is, however,
but defered.
H. H.


I4 THE MURDER ON THE BUS
“Well, Summers. What d'you make of it?” queried
Inspector Higgins, who had been studying the other
keenly whilst he was reading the letter. Had Summers but
known it, he was being tested by the astute inspector, who
always thus secretly examined newcomers to the Yard.
“First of all, sir, there's the original envelope, the one
misdirected. That does not appear to be here.”
“Good. The Post Office people did not send it. Go on.”
“Then, “deferred' is spelled incorrectly.”
Inspector Higgins nodded. “Anything else?”
“It appears to be a case of suicide, sir.”
“H'm.” The inspector did not seem so pleased with
this contention on the part of his subordinate. “Is there
no alternative?”
Constable Summers gazed at his Chief inquiringly for
a moment, then:
“Surely, sir, you're not thinking of murder?”
Inspector Higgins laughed shortly. “Murder? Well, of
course, that is an alternative, but—is there not a chance
that the whole thing may turn out to be a hoax?”
“Hoax, sir? No one would dare—”
“Wouldn't they?” Higgins broke in upon the other's
remarks. “Oh, wouldn't they! When you've been in the
Service as long as I have, Summers, you'll realise that
there is a considerable number of half-wits knocking about
who seem to think that the highest form of jest is to send
the police on a fool's errand. Lord! Don't we know it!” he
added, almost inaudibly, yet plaintively. “Don’t we just
know it!”
“Do you want me to look into it, sir?”
“I do. Bulstroade's Buildings are in the East End some-
where. Look them up. Then ask Doctor Pape to accompany
you, and if he should tender you any advice don't be above
taking it. That's all.”
Constable Summers placed the letters and envelopes
in his pocket, bowed to his Chief and made for the door,
where he halted at a word from the inspector.


A LETTER TO SCOTLAND YARD I5
“Just a little warning. Don't take my suggestion—that
the matter may be a hoax—too seriously. I shall be sur-
prised if it isn't, but don't go bursting into the room with
a lighted cigarette. The man may have committed suicide
by gas-poisoning, as he suggests, and—er—we don't want
to lose—er—Doctor Pape—er—do we?”
“No, sir.” Constable Summers was a bit uncertain
as to how to take the inspector's levity, but he added,
with a grave face, “In any case, sir, I don't smoke.”
The door closed, and Inspector Higgins with a smile
resumed his study of his other correspondence. This
matter of the letter was one which a subordinate, and an
inexperienced subordinate at that, could well undertake.
Higgins had a full sense of the value of his own time—and
he was paid by the State. It was not that he had an
exaggerated idea of his own importance, but merely that
he was honest. He did not believe in “keeping a dog and
barking yourself.”
Constable Summers, as soon as he had left the inspec-
tor's office, had a feeling that somehow he had been placed
on trial: that his conduct of this particular case would be
carefully filed away in the inspector's brain for future
reference. He threw back his shoulders and determined
to make the most of his chance. A suicide was not much
of a job, but at least it was a start.
Bulstroade's Buildings. That must be the first step.
Where were they? A visit to the reference library was
indicated. From the attendant he obtained a directory of
immense size and of considerable weight. Quickly he
turned the leaves. B . . . B . . . Bu . . . Buchanan
Gardens, Bucharest Road, Buckingham Gate . . . Road
. . . Street . . . Buckland Crescent, Buckley Road,
Bucklersbury, Budge Row, Bullen Street . . . Getting
warmer! . . . Bulstrode Street . . . Ah! Street! . . .
Spelled differently, too! . . . Bunhill Row . . . B . . .
Why! Damn it all! There was no such place! He turned


I6 THE MURDER ON THE BUS
back a few leaves and started again. He was quite right.
Bulstroade's Buildings did not exist. He had a moment
of panic when a precipitate return to Inspector Higgins
seemed the only thing to do, but he pulled himself to-
gether. This would never do! On his first job, too! He
consulted the attendant.
“Not there? Nothing in that. Name changed, probably
—may have been a crime or something there. Remember
Crippen! Try an older directory. Here, I'll get you one.
New here, eh?”
Without waiting for a reply the attendant bustled
away, to return in a very short time with a similar volume
of the same bulk, but with its cover a more faded crimson.
“Here y’are, chum. Try this one. It's nine years old.”
Constable Summers seized the volume eagerly, and a
second later was feverishly turning the leaves. He gave
a sigh of relief and satisfaction—relief because the Bul-
stroade's Buildings appeared therein, and satisfaction
because his momentary panic of a few moments before
had been a near thing!
Bulstroade's Buildings, E.I. Map O.8. P.9. Summers
turned to the elaborate map pasted in the cover of the
directory, and opened it on the library table. The letters
and the numbers related to certain squares on the map;
the letters ran horizontally and the numbers vertically. He
ran his finger along the top until he reached the letter
O, then he followed the lines downwards until he reached
the number 8 on the left. The square P.9 was thus the
next square below to the right. He marvelled somewhat
that such buildings should occupy two squares, then the
solution came to his mind. He was quite right. Bul-
stroade's Buildings were on the exact spot where the
lines divided O. and P., and 8 and 9. Good!
He was just making a copy of the precise location of
the Buildings when a voice from the door shouted, without
preamble:
“Summers?”


A LETTER TO SCOTLAND YARD 17
He looked up. “Yes?”
“Dr. Pape's downstairs. Old Higgins told him that
there was a case for him and that you were going to
investigate. Dr. Pape wants to know what about it.”
“All right. I'm coming.”
He followed the other out of the library and thought
to improve the occasion by asking what sort of a man the
police surgeon was.
“Pape?” queried the other disrespectfully. “He’s all
right. Bit of an old woman, of course, but . . .” He
shrugged his shoulders noncommittally.
“Thanks.” Constable Summers hurried away, to find
an irascible, middle-aged gentleman pacing impatiently
up and down outside the entrance gates. A colleague
pointed him out as Dr. Pape.
“I’m Summers, sir. You're the police surgeon?”
“I am. And you know it. Constable Harriss just pointed
me out. I saw him. Let's get along.”
“Certainly, sir.” Constable Summers immediately set
off at a brisk pace for the station, but was stopped by Dr.
Pape.
“Not so fast, Summers—not so fast. My car's
here.”
“I’d better meet you at the Buildings, sir, hadn't I?”
“Don’t be a fool. Jump in.”
“Thank you very much, sir.”
The journey to the East End was undertaken in silence.
Dr. Pape appeared to be asleep or in some other state
of coma, whilst the constable did not know how to cope
with the police surgeon's mood, or, in fact, what to make
of him at all. Had he but known that he was to journey
to Bulstroade's Buildings by car he would not have
troubled to have looked them up in the directory and so
incurred the doctor's wrath by his delay. It would have
been the chauffeur's funeral then | He did not know of the
encyclopaedic knowledge of London's highways and by-
ways which Dr. Pape's chauffeur possessed.


I8 THE MURDER ON THE BUS
The car drew to a standstill, and the driver jumped
down and opened the door.
“Bulstroade's Buildings, first turning on the right, sir.
Half-way down.”
“Thanks.” Dr. Pape nodded to his man, then: “Come
along, Summers.”
They proceeded at a brisk rate down the road indicated,
but had not gone very far before Summers crossed the
road to consult a uniformed colleague.
“Bulstroade's Buildings, eh? Try Birkenhead Mansions.
They used to be called somebody or other's Buildings.”
“Thanks.”
Birkenhead Mansions, whilst imposing in their bulk,
were unprepossessing in their appearance. Dull, flat, un-
interesting walls, badly in need of painting; rectangular
windows with many a broken pane; the lower windows
having boxes on the sills where bedraggled plants struggled
vainly for existence. The Mansions had seen better days.


CHAPTER II
IN WEHICH CONSTABLE SUMMERS COMMENCES OPERATIONS
LTHOUGH termed mansions, there was apparently
only one entrance. This was a large brick archway
with stone steps leading upwards, and with innumerable
children of all ages, dirty, unkempt, yet amazingly cheerful,
playing beneath its protection. Dr. Pape and Constable
Summers passed through the entrance wonderingly. A
bedraggled woman was leaning against the broken door
of a room. To her Summers addressed himself:
“Henry Hamper live here?”
“Dunno and don’ care.” The woman had shifty eyes,
but they did not fail to notice the hard look which had
crept into the doctor's face. She hedged:
“Try next floor. All families 'ere. An’ none o' that
nime.”
They tried the next floor, and were surprised to find
that their progress was barred by a door, upon which
was painted by an amateur sign-writer:
Mrs. Hick. Lodgins.
Summers knocked and pulled an old-fashioned bell
at the side of the door. For a few moments there was no
response, but upon his pulling the bell again they could
both hear the sound of shuffling feet. The door opened.
“Well?”—uncompromisingly. -
“Henry Hamper live here?”
“What d'yer want 'im for?”
“So he does live here, eh?”—quietly, from the doctor.
“I never said so.”
I9


2O THE MURDER ON THE BUS
“Don’t quibble. Show us to his room.”
The woman hesitated—and was lost. Unceremoniously
she was thrust aside by Constable Summers, whom Dr.
Pape followed.
“His room?”
“Second door on the left up the next flight—but 'e
won't answer—I’ve tried.”
The two police officials looked at each other quickly,
then looked away. They hurried up the next flight of
steps—stone, as before. The second door on the left was
locked on the inside, and the end of the large, old-
fashioned key protruded slightly on the outside. Mrs.
Hick had followed them upstairs, consumed with curi-
osity. Summers turned to her.
“You have a duplicate key of this room, eh? Then
fetch it.” The woman shuffled away. Constable Sum-
mers bent and tried to peer through the keyhole. Was
it imagination or could he detect a faint smell of gas?
With the tips of his forefinger and thumb he twiddled
the end of the key until the blade was perpendicular;
then he produced from the cover of his pocket diary a
pencil, thin but strong. A little pressure, a slight ad-
justment of the key, and he felt it move. A moment
later it dropped into the room with a musical rattle. An
asthmatic sound behind him made Constable Summers
turn. Mrs. Hick had returned, and had brought a key
with her. She was much out of breath.
“These stairs,” she panted, “’ll be the death o' me.”
Summers took the key and inserted it into the key-
hole, then he turned to the waiting landlady.
“That'll be all, thank you.”
“Ho. Will it! It's my 'ouse, I'll 'ave you know. An’
'oo are you ter order me abaht in me own 'ouse, I'd like
ter know.” She folded her arms on her ample bosom
and glared defiance.
Constable Summers produced a card—an official card—


SUMMERS COMMENCES OPERATIONS 21
one of a hundred he had had printed a few weeks before,
and none of which he had yet had the opportunity of
using.
EDw1N SUMMERs
Metropolitan Police.
Criminal Investigation Department,
Scotland Yard. S.W.I.
Terse and to the point. It did not give away too much
information. He might, from such a card, be either the
Commissioner or a Commissionaire. -
He was both surprised and gratified at the result.
The woman visibly wilted, then retreated backwards
slowly, as if contact with the police officials might con-
taminate her.
“Sorry, gents, I'm sure. I'd better be goin’.” She went.
“Now then, Summers, you'd better be careful.” Dr.
Pape was still smiling at the woman's discomfiture. “I
think perhaps that I'd better go in first and open the
windows and so on, you see—”
“No, no, sir. It's all right. After all, sir, it's my job,
and—”
The police surgeon shrugged his shoulders.
“As you please, but take a tip from me: put a hand-
kerchief over your nose and mouth; walk in quickly,
turn off the gas-tap and open the window; then come
straight out, and close the door after you.”
“Thank you, sir.” Now that he was not to be robbed
of the privilege of being the first to enter the room,
Constable Summers was all affability, and—what was
it Inspector Higgins had said? If Dr. Pape should tender
any advice, don't be above taking it. Well, he wouldn't
be above taking it, and in any case such advice was in
the doctor's own sphere.


22 THE MURDER ON THE BUS
He pulled out his handkerchief and covered his nose
and mouth, and the police surgeon did likewise. Sum-
mers seized the handle of the door, opened it gingerly,
then flung open the door and rushed into the room.
He gave one glance at a still figure upon the floor,
immediately noted a tube leading from it to a gas-bracket
on the wall, stepped quickly over the recumbent figure
to reach the bracket, and promptly turned off the tap.
Then, as advised, he gave his attention to the window.
The spaces between the frames and the woodwork were
stuffed with newspaper, which he tore away with his
free hand. A moment later he had released the window-
catch and flung up the lower frame. Then, precipitately,
he retired from the room, slammed the door after him and
gulped into his lungs such air as was allowed to per-
colate from the passage below.
“Phew!” He now utilised his handkerchief to mop
his brow, which was gleaming with sweat. “How long,
Doctor?”
“Better wait five minutes. It was no hoax, eh?”
“No, sir. It was not.” Constable Summers' words
were emphatic, for in spite of the inspector's words he
had never really believed that anyone would dare to
hoax the Yard. He now considered his beliefs completely
vindicated.
The five-minute wait seemed long—and Summers was
impatient.
“Suppose the poor devil's still alive, sir? We ought
to do something.”
“If he killed himself when he posted that letter, then
he's been dead many hours. In any case, I presume you've
turned off the gas, so he's stopped inhaling any more
poison, and we can do nothing till we can breathe with
comfort. Come along. Time's up.” Dr. Pape stood aside
for the other to precede him. He was a man of dis-
cernment, and realised how keen the other was to set
about this, his first case.


SUMMERS COMMENCES OPERATIONS 23
As soon as he was inside the room, Constable Summers
drew a tentative breath. The opening of the window had
apparently had the desired effect, for the air was, if
anything, sweeter than that of the passage outside. Then,
together with Dr. Pape, he walked to the body lying upon
the floor. It was of a man, small—almost puny—with
the head enveloped in a pillow-case which had apparently
been taken from the bed against the opposite wall. A
piece of rubber tubing connected the gas-bracket with
the pillow-case, which the doctor carefully removed. The
man's head was lying upon the pillow inside the case,
which had been unbuttoned first and rebuttoned round
his chin.
“Dead as a door-knocker,” murmured the police sur-
geon, and for some reason Summers was inexpressibly
shocked. “Been dead a couple o' days, I should think.
Be able perhaps to tell better later on. H'm.”
Summers gazed round the room, leaving Dr. Pape to
his ruminations.
The furniture consisted of a table (upon which rested
a hat and a pair of gloves), two chairs and the bed. Also
upon the table was a piece of candle set in its own grease,
and on the floor was a newspaper.
The man had taken care to seal all the cracks between
the window-panes with paper, most of which the constable
had removed when he entered the room for the first time,
but he had made no attempt to cover a ventilator near the
ceiling. There was a small cupboard in one corner, to
which Summers now turned his attention. He opened
the door.
“Mother Hubbard?” queried the doctor, looking up
from his gruesome task and noting the bare shelves.
“Yessir.”
“H'm. Better send for the ambulance. Then lock the
room and take the key away.”
“That's exactly what I was thinking of doing, sir,”
replied the constable mendaciously. “That is, of course,


24 THE MURDER ON THE BUS
if you wouldn't mind waiting here whilst I telephone.
I don't suppose there's an instrument in this benighted
hole.”
“Right. I'll wait. Tell the ambulance men that I'm
here, will you? They'll understand.”
“Certainly, sir.”
Constable Summers then made his exit, carefully clos-
ing the door behind him, to find the passage outside
the door completely blocked by children and adults from
the floors below, who eyed him with expectancy. Mrs.
Hick was not in evidence, but he shrewdly guessed that
she was not far away. He cleared a passage with diffi-
culty, but was chagrined to find that he was followed
downstairs by the inquisitive children. He shook them
off, however, when he entered a near-by post office, where
he telephoned for an ambulance and gave Dr. Pape's
message.
His return journey was still in the nature of a pro-
cession, as he was quickly recognised by the children
waiting outside the post office. He pushed his way through
the crowded stairways and started to open the door.
Then he thought that it was about time he exercised
his authority with the recalcitrant neighbours. He turned
quickly:
“Well! What the deuce do you think you all want?
Clear off! Clear off, or I'll run some of you in.” There
was not the slightest move, and for the moment he was
nonplussed. Then he pulled out his diary, removed that
selfsame pencil which had ejected the key of the lock
a short while before, and walked up to one of the waiting
women who, arms akimbo, was taking up more than her
fair share of space.
“Your name and address, please. Obstruction of police.
Serious crime.”
He waited expectantly, and the woman shuffled un-
easily, then made for the stairs. “Or-right! Or-right!


SUMMERS COMMENCES OPERATIONS 25
I'm agoin’?” Constable Summers watched her retreat,
then cast his eye round for another victim. One and
all they evaded his gaze. Five minutes later the passage
was entirely cleared, and Summers re-entered the tragic
room with a sigh of satisfaction.
Dr. Pape looked up quickly, then resumed his ab-
stracted gaze at the wallpaper, placidly smoking a ciga-
rette. -
“All clear?”
“Yes, sir,” replied the constable. “They'll be along
shortly.”
“Good.” Dr. Pape gazed thoughtfully round the room.
“Doesn't seem to be much about here. There's one thing
you must do before you let the ambulance men take him
away—if you'll—er—excuse my making a suggestion.”
“It's kind of you to help, sir. What must I do?”
Constable Summers thought furiously, for, as far as he
was aware, there was nothing further to be done.
“Well—for one thing—you must have that landlady
here to identify him.”
“Do you think, then, that he might not be the Henry
Hamper person?”
“I don't think anything of the sort, but it's our job
to be certain. This is his room, right enough—if we are
to believe the admirable Mrs. Hick—but we don't know
that this is actually Henry Hamper. And another tip”
—Dr. Pape looked at the constable quizzically, and the
other nodded eagerly.
“Yessir?”
The doctor continued with a smile: “Take his finger-
prints. According to the letter which Hig–er—Inspector
Higgins read to me over the telephone, this Hamper
is known at the Yard, and this will help identification.
The inspector may ask for them, and you want to be
prepared.”
“Thank you, sir. I'll do it at once.”


26 THE MURDER ON THE BUS
It was, however, more easily said than done, and
it was not until the doctor had suggested a little soot
from the chimney as a means of obtaining the prints
that the difficulty was overcome. The constable was sur-
prised to find the chimney stopped up with paper. Ap-
parently Henry Hamper when he decided to take his
life also resolved to make a good job of it!
A little soot; two or three pages from his diary; and
the matter, albeit very repugnant to the constable's sensi-
bilities, was accomplished.
The sharp, incisive clang of a bell in the street below
presaged the arrival of the police ambulance, and a few
moments later the men could be heard tramping up the
stone steps.
Constable Summers went to the door and opened it.
The crowd, if anything, was bigger than before, and he
glared round to frighten some of its members into retreat.
It had not the slightest effect. He gave it up as a bad
job, and beckoned the attendants into the room.
“Hallo, Doc' Here we are again!” The man in charge
greeted the police surgeon cheerily, then gazed down
thoughtfully at the deceased Hamper. “H'm. Another
of 'em! Simple way out, I suppose. No mess. No fuss.
No nothing! Ah well! Finished with him, Doc?” Dr.
Pape nodded affirmatively. “And you?” He turned to
Constable Summers, who gave a start at being so ad-
dressed, forgetting for the moment that he was ostensibly
in charge of the case.
“Er—yes, yes.”
“Righto! Come along, boys. Gently now. Lord! He
don't weigh above an ounce. Mind the door.”
Summers rushed and held the door open, then noticed
the inquisitive crowd: “Make way there! Make way!”
No one took the slightest notice. Then the cheery at-
tendant took up the cudgels. He apparently had some
experience in these matters. He glared aggressively at
the crowd. Then in a stentorian voice bellowed:


SUMMERS COMMENCES OPERATIONS 27
“Clear out the blarsted way, some of yer, can't yer!
What the hell d'yer think xx
The crowd slowly began to melt. The cheery one turned
and winked to his helpers.
Ten minutes later the ambulance was on its way to the
mortuary.


CHAPTER III
IN WEHICH A CORONER SAYS A FEW WORDS
66 ELL’” Dr. Pape looked at the constable quizzi-
cally and interrogatively, and such was the con-
centration of his gaze that the eyes of the other wavered
uncomfortably.
“What, sir?”
“So, after all, you are satisfied as to the deceased's
identity.”
“Gosh, sir, I forgot all about what you said! Lord!
I'm a fool. It was that ambulance man. He got me rattled
when he asked me whether I had finished.” And from
his agitation Constable Summers was obviously still
rattled !
“Ah well. It's your funeral. I'm off back to the Yard.
Is there anything I can do for you on the way or when
I get there?”
Summers made a gallant attempt to pull himself to-
gether. He knew that he was not cutting a very heroic
figure on this his first case. He had a few moments of
intense thought, then:
“Yes, sir, there is. If you would be so kind, will you
please take these prints to the Records Department and
ask them whether the deceased has ever passed through
our hands.” A wealth of pride in the possessive “our.”
“Certainly, Summers—certainly. Anything else?”
“No, sir. Unless, of course, you have anything to sug-
gest yourself, sir.”
“No. The fingerprints were all I had in mind. Well,
I'll be pushing along.” With a nod of his head the police
surgeon left the room, and Summers remained perfectly
28


A CORONER SAYS A FEW WORDS 29
still until he could no longer hear the retreating foot-
steps. Gosh! He was now on his own. What was the first
step? Ah! An interview with Mrs. Hick, the landlady.
He left the room, having closed the window, then locked
the door behind him and pocketed the key.
Sundry heads from adjacent doors peered out en-
quiringly, and his journey down the flight of steps was
followed inquisitively by many pairs of eyes.
“Mrs. Hick! Mrs. Hick!” he shouted on reaching
the dividing door. There was no response. He shouted
again with the same result, then turned to one of the
tenants.
“Where's the landlady?”
“Gorn P’
“What d'you mean, ‘Gorn'?” Summers was startled.
“Gorn aht!”
“I know what you mean! But where?”
“’OW sh’d I know?”
“Well. Make a guess.”
The other grinned. “Better try the public bar o' the
‘Three Daggers.’”
Constable Summers breathed a sigh of relief. For one
brief moment he had thought that the woman had bolted,
hiding some guilty secret.
“And where's that?”
“Rahnd the corner,” replied the other in some sur-
prise. Fancy anyone not knowing where the nearest pub
was
“Thanks.”
Constable Summers hurried to the hostelry in question,
entered the public bar, and there he found Mrs. Hick,
surrounded by cronies, and slightly under the weather.
All were animatedly discussing the suicide of her lodger,
and stout and gin were flowing freely. The constable
walked up to the landlady and touched her on the shoul-
der. She looked round, grinned impishly when she dis-
covered who it was accosting her (strong drink had ap-


3O THE MURDER ON THE BUS
parently given her courage), and then flung out her arms,
exclaiming dramatically:
“Pinched l’’
A roar of laughter from her satellites greeted this
sally, and Summers began to feel uncomfortable.
“No, Mrs. Hick. You're not under arrest
paused for effect, then: “–yet,” he added.
The woman sobered instantly.
“What d'yer mean?” she demanded truculently, yet with
a tinge of apprehension.
“Nothing. But I want you to return to your house
with me so that we can have a little chat.”
“Or-right,” she acquiesced with ill grace, waved a grimy
hand to the bar in general, then followed submissively at
the constable's heels.
Once clear of the atmosphere of the bar, the com-
paratively fresh air of the street, whilst it cleared some
of the fog from Mrs. Hick's brain, seemingly pinned
shackles to her feet, and she clung to the arm of Constable
Summers for support, much to the amusement of all the
onlookers. It must have been years since Mrs. Hick had
had such a presentable escort, and she made the most
of it.
Arrived back at the house, they ran the gauntlet of
the tenants of the first floor until they reached the dividing
door. There Mrs. Hick produced a large doorkey from
beneath her apron and opened the door, where the pair
immediately became the cynosure of the eyes of Mrs.
Hick's lodgers.
“Upstairs,” commanded Summers. “To his room.”
“Lawks! Won't me own do?”
“All right. As you please.”
They walked to the end of the passage, and the land-
lady threw open the furthermost door and preceded the
constable into the room.
She collapsed thankfully into a well-worn wicker chair,
whilst Summers produced his official notebook.
” He


A CORONER SAYS A FEW WORDS 3I
“Your name, please.”
“Martha Hick.”
“You live here?”
“’Course I do.” The constable looked up sharply. “Yes,
sir,” she promptly amended her reply, denuding it of any
semblance of truculence.
“What was the name of your lodger upstairs?”
“’Enry 'Amper.”
“'Ow long—ahem.” (This dropping of aspirates was
becoming infectious!) “How long has he been a tenant
of yours?”
“Three weeks.” (She giggled, having recently read a
book with a similar title.) “’E paid three months' rent,
so I didn't need no reference.”
Summers smiled sardonically. “What do you know
of him?”
“’E weren't a mucher. Came 'ome tight before 'e'd
bin 'ere a week. I'd 'a give 'im notice only 'e promised
not ter do it agen.” (A look of virtue comic in its
gravity!) “Then 'e come 'ome tight agen on Sunday
night. Brought 'ere in a keb by a pal and a slop—I
mean a policeman. I banged on 'is door on Monday
mornin’ and told 'im 'e could sling 'is 'ook. Lawks! I
s'pose it was me bein’ so 'ard-'arted in turnin' 'im aht
'o 'ouse an' 'ome that made 'im do 'isself in. Oh, deary,
deary!” The woman began to shed maudlin tears, and
Constable Summers, who had been assiduously making
notes of her comments, decided to end his catechism.
“Oh, I dunno, missis. Anyhow, I want you to come
with me to the mortuary. Just to see if you can identify
him as your lodger.”
“Lawks, sir! I don't 'ave ter go, do I?”
“I'm afraid so. I'm sorry. I'll make it worth your
while.”
The landlady brightened visibly, and Summers de-
cided that the half-crown he would give her would not
be a legitimate item to go upon his expense sheet, but


32 THE MURDER ON THE BUS
that he would treat it as a fine upon himself for neglecting
Dr. Pape's advice prior to the removal of the deceased
from the premises. “Come along, then. We'd best be
going. And, meanwhile, let me warn you not to try and
re-let that room until we’ve done with it. In any case,
as Mr. Hamper paid three mouths' rent in advance you
cannot honestly do so yet awhile. Come along.”
The journey by bus to the mortuary was completed
in silence, and the formality was soon over. Without a
doubt, the deceased was Henry Hamper, or, to be
meticulously exact, the man who had taken the room in
Bulstroade's Buildings under that name. Summers gave
the woman the promised reward together with her re-
turn fare, and warned her that she would be wanted
for the inquest, due notice of which would be given.
Then he returned to Scotland Yard.
Sergeant Mercier, in charge of the Records Depart-
ment of Scotland Yard, was, without doubt, a quick
worker. It was his proud boast that he could find any
required information in fifteen seconds, and, although
this was an exaggerated statement, he had a commendable
reputation for the speed with which his department pro-
duced replies to any question of fact. He also had a
reputation for wit, which was not quite so commendable.
In fact, not to put a fine point upon it, it was deplorable.
His humour was generally antiquated, always personal,
and sometimes vulgar. To give him his due, he was,
years before, actually funny, until he acquired this repu-
tation for wit. Then the original fount of humour dried
up and became forced. Human nature!
When Dr. Pape had returned to Scotland Yard and
presented to Mercier the fingerprints of the deceased
Hamper, the sergeant was put upon his mettle.
“It'll be ready in fifteen seconds, sir. I'll let you know
—provided, of course, that he is represented in our


A CORONER SAYS A FEW WORDS 33
academy of those with burglarious instincts—his name,
rank or rating. What he did: how he did it—”
“Fifteen seconds!” Dr. Pape cut short the harangue.
“That should be time enough. Constable Summers will
not be wanting the information for a couple of hours
or so,” he continued dryly. He nodded adieu and left
the department, whilst Sergeant Mercier gazed after him,
if not exactly open-mouthed, at least in utter bewilder-
Iment.
Thus, when Constable Summers returned to Scotland
Yard, having settled with Mrs. Hick, Sergeant Mercier
had only just recovered his equanimity.
“Hullo, Constable. I’ve had this information waiting
for you for hours.” (Constable Summers blinked, but
refrained from comment.) “The prints you sent me
were those of Henry Hamper. Three years for attempted
blackmail just after the war. Been a good boy since. At
least, he's been lucky—no subsequent convictions.”
“Thank you, Sergeant. Any family?”
“One. Boy. Used to visit his old man in quod. Name
of Thomas. Went to Canada, I believe. No-wait a
minute—here's the kid's address: Fetter Street, Camber-
well. Anything wrong with the old man?”
“Dead, that's all.”
“H'm. Well, I must get along with my job. Anything
further you may require from us—a word to me and
it shall be done!” The sergeant was out to impress this
novitiate of the Yard.
“Thank you, Sergeant. Fetter Street, eh? I must go
and break the sad news, I suppose.”
Fetter Street was not exactly in a salubrious neigh-
bourhood, at least as regards its immediate vicinity, and
was very similar in appearance to the street in which
Birkenhead Mansions were situated. Summers had to
wait until the son of Henry Hamper returned from
work, which, as was carefully explained to him by a


34 THE MURDER ON THE BUS
neighbour, depended on the state of trade. Thomas Ham-
per was a vendor of vegetables from a barrow, in short,
a costermonger, and his day finished when his wares
were sold. A little judicious pumping, and the constable
ascertained that the young Hamper was straight, a good
kid, and likely to have a little shop of his own when
he got spliced, which would be in the near future.
Trade must have been good, for Thomas Hamper re-
turned to his home about five o'clock. He was of medium
size, about nineteen years of age, with a pleasing open
countenance. His dress was merely ordinary, save that
he wore a muffler instead of the more customary collar
and tie. His voice was somewhat hoarse, probably as a
result of his calling (using both meanings of the word),
and he had a little trouble with his aspirates, being apt
to stress rather than omit.
Summers broke the news as gently as he could. The
boy took it stoically.
“Dead, eh? Suicide?” He looked up at the constable.
“You know what he was, I suppose?” Summers nodded
affirmatively. “Well. That's past and done with. He wasn't
a bad sort to me. Suicide!” He shook his head from side
to side. “I can't hardly believe it!”
In due course the inquest was held.
Mrs. Hick, resplendent in her best garb and crowned
with a hat decorated with an immense feather, identified
the deceased as her lodger. Thomas Hamper also identified
him as his father. The evidence of Dr. Pape and Con-
stable Summers as to the finding of the body was given
early in the brief proceedings. Death was pronounced
by the police surgeon to be caused by gas-poisoning.
The coroner interspersed a few remarks, unintelligible
to most of his audience, as to the deadly properties of
coal-gas and the efforts of the great gas undertakings
to find a means of circumventing the er—apparent—
er—popularity of gas as a means of er—ending one's


A CORONER SAYS A FEW WORDS 35
miserable existence. The three years' imprisonment of the
deceased was duly commented upon. A suggested motive
for the deceased taking his own life was remorse for his
past misdeeds, although the coroner carefully explained
that such of his misdeeds as were known had been duly
expiated by the afore-mentioned term of imprisonment.
Then the question of the state of his mind at the
time of his death. It was a moot point whether or not
all criminals were not—er—mentally unbalanced. The
coroner liked the phrase and repeated it:
“Mentally unbalanced. Then we come to this last letter
written by the deceased. It may tend to show the state
of his mind when we remember that it was enclosed in
another envelope which was insufficiently addressed. In
fact, the word “insufficiently’ but baldly describes the mat-
ter, for we know that the original envelope did not bear
any address at all. The Dead-Letter Office naturally
assumed that the letter had been posted by an absent-
minded person who had forgotten to place thereon the ad-
dressee's—er—address. But upon the envelope being
opened a further envelope was found inside addressed to
our good friends—the Metropolitan Police—two of
whose representatives we have here to-day.” The coroner
bowed formally to the police surgeon and Constable
Summers. “The substance of that letter you know. Mr.
Thomas Hamper, who has my deepest sympathy, can-
not say definitely that it is his father's handwriting,
which, considering that he has no sample, and has not
seen any of his father's handwriting since he was a mere
boy, is not surprising. From the substance of that letter
it is apparent that the deceased intended to take his own
life, and warns the police about a naked light. I pass over
his—er—ribald reference to meeting some of the Force
in the-er—nether regions. . . .”
“Suicide whilst of unsound mind.”
Thus ended Constable Summers’ first case.


CHAPTER IV
IN WHICH INSPECTOR HIGGINS ASKS A FEW QUESTIONS
IN...Tº HIGGINS lay back in his chair, his right
ankle resting upon his left knee, his thumbs thrust into
the armholes of his waistcoat, whilst his fingers beat a
continuous tattoo upon his chest. He sucked meditatively
at his pipe and gazed at the ceiling, waiting for the other
to finish. Eventually:
“Thank you, Summers. Clear and concise. So it was
suicide, and not a hoax. Hand in your written report
to Sergeant Mercier.” He nodded dismissal to the other,
who instantly retired; then the inspector reached for his hat
and coat. He had decided to call it a day!
It was a cold November day, yet, in spite of this
and of the fact that he lived over five miles from the Yard,
he decided to walk home. He was an athletic man, and
walking was his only exercise. It was eight o'clock when
he arrived home, and nine before he rose from the table
having finished the huge meal prepared for him by his
landlady. Then he settled himself in his comfortable
armchair before a blazing fire, a large whisky-and-soda
conveniently to hand and opened the first page of the
latest thriller. He did not read this type of fiction for
its educational value, for no novelist could teach him his
own job; nor, strangely enough, did he read it for amuse-
ment—although some of the fictional detectives caused
him to smile either at their obtuseness or at their infal-
libility; as a matter of fact he read this type of book
mainly because it interested him without any mental
effort, and—contradictorily—because he obtained a little
mental exercise in trying to find the criminal or other-
36


INSPECTOR HIGGINS ASKS QUESTIONS 37
wise elucidating the mystery. He was invariably correct
in his choice of criminal, but he cheated Not that he
looked at the last chapter before reading the first. Oh
no! He merely picked on the most unlikely character,
who preferably had an unassailable alibi and was miles
away from the scene of the crime at the time of its
commission. If he had not discovered the criminal before
he was half-way through the book it had his commenda-
tion. But the novelist had to play fair. No suppressing of
a vital clue until the last page. Many a time Higgins had
flung down a book in disgust for this very reason.
The book he was reading at this time was certainly
a thriller! Modesty forbids us to disclose its name. It
was such a thriller that Inspector Higgins woke with a
start! It was his telephone bell ringing. He stretched his
cramped limbs and hurried to the instrument.
“Hallo! Hallo! Yes. Higgins speaking. Oh! Is that
you, Chief? . . . Yes, yes. I see. I'll go at once. Good-
bye, sir.”
Higgins replaced the receiver with a sigh. There would
be no bed for him to-night!
Five minutes later he closed his side-door, wheeling
his bicycle to the kerb. It was just his luck that the little
two-seater which he had recently purchased should already
be laid up for repairs, but . . .
He arrived at the bus terminus at half-an-hour after
midnight, and presented his card to the man at the gate.
“Inspector Higgins? Step straight through, please. In
the corner over there.”
The direction thus given was entirely superfluous,
for in the corner was a small group of men, bus drivers
and conductors mostly, with the tall helmet of a police-
man standing out from the centre of the group. Higgins
strode quickly to the corner, and the men looked round
at his approach. The policeman, a constable, breathed a
sigh of relief, thankful to get the job lifted from his
shoulders.


38 THE MURDER ON THE BUS
“Inspector Higgins, sir? This is a rum business, sir.”
The men stood back to give him passage, then re-
formed as he passed through. In the centre of the group
stood the constable, and at his feet the body of a man,
of huge proportions, but soberly dressed. The man had
been shot throught the back of the neck, and the bullet
had passed through his throat. It was not a pleasant
sight. In spite of his familiarity with death in varied
forms, Inspector Higgins could not suppress a shudder of
repulsion.
“Awful sight, ain't he, sir?”
“He certainly is. Doctor been?”
“And gone, sir.”
“Gone?”
“Yes, sir. Called away almost as soon as he got here.
Urgent case.”
“H'm. Should've thought this was urgent enough.”
“That's what I thought, sir, but the doctor said that
whereas this poor chap was dead, his other patient was
not.”
“H'm.” Inspector Higgins considered this for a mo-
ment, then: “Well, what did he say?”
The constable pulled from his tunic pocket a well-
thumbed notebook. “Nothing much, sir,” he mumbled,
quickly turning the leaves. “Dead, of course, but . . .
Ah! Here we are! Spinal cord severed, death instan-
taneous. Been dead about an hour, and—”
“What time did he examine this man?”
“About three-quarters of an hour ago, sir.”
“Then two hours ago this”—indicating the still form
with the forefinger of his right hand—“was alive?”
“Er—yessir. I s'pose so.”
“H'm. And we're wasting time here.” Higgins looked
up sharply. “Where did you find him?”
“On top of a bus, sir.”
“On—top—of-a-what?”
“Bus, sir.”


INSPECTOR HIGGINS ASKS QUESTIONS 39
“Bus, eh? Then he's been moved?”
“’Course 'e 'as.” A gratuitous comment from one of
the onlookers. Inspector Higgins turned to the interrupter,
his eyebrows raised in interrogation.
“And what, exactly, do you mean by that?”
“It’s all very well for you 'tecs to talk about not movin'
'im, but we 'appen to be 'uman beings.” The man splut-
tered, somewhat ill at ease, Higgins having taken him up
so sharply, yet he continued: “’Course 'e's bin moved.
We didn't know the poor devil was dead, an' we 'ad to do
the best we could for 'im.”
“I see.” Privately, Inspector Higgins thought the man's
explanation perfectly reasonable, but such is the fetish
at the Yard never to move a case in the hope of preserv-
ing possible clues that his official soul was shocked. “And
the bus P’’ He turned once more to the waiting constable.
“This one, sir.”
Inspector Higgins viewed the vehicle indicated. It was
an old-fashioned two-decker, and, unlike the majority
of the company's buses, open at the top. The more modern
type was covered-in and had six wheels with balloon tyres.
This had only four wheels and the tyres were solid.
“Come along, Constable. I'd like to view the bus-top
first. You can show me where he was.”
This last instruction, however, was completely un-
necessary, for, once on the top deck, there was no doubt
as to where the unfortunate man had been sitting, for
one of the seats was covered with blood.
It was the back seat of the near side. Higgins sur-
veyed it with a thoughtful frown upon his forehead,
then he turned to the constable.
“The back seat, Constable?”
The man nodded. “Yessir.”
“And he was shot in the back of the neck,” Higgins
ruminated audibly.
The significance of his remark dawned upon the con-
stable's intelligence.


INSPECTOR HIGGINS ASKS QUESTIONS 41
The watchman had apparently been successful in his
efforts to disperse the employees for, barring two, the
garage was now deserted.
The dead man was big boned and big limbed, and to
the best of Higgins's judgment about forty-five years of
age. Cleanshaven, with greying hair, there was little out-
standing about him save his size.
Higgins felt gingerly in the man's coat for a tailor's
tab, but it had been removed. The trousers buttons were
perfectly plain, and bore no impress of the tailor's name,
as one would have expected from the style and material
of the suit. From his cursory inspection it appeared to
Inspector Higgins that a deliberate attempt had been
made to suppress the man's identity. He turned to the
two bus-men, who were interested spectators, and ad-
dressed the conductor.
“You found him, I suppose?”
“Yes, sir.”
Inspector Higgins pulled out a huge gunmetal contrap-
tion which served to keep him cognisant of the flight of
time, and consulted its dial.
“Where was the bus between—er—ten forty-five and
say eleven fifteen this—er—evening?”
The conductor consulted his timesheet and ticket-
record—that mysterious sheet upon which a conductor
enters periodically the distinctive numbers of his tickets
—and then replied:
“I clocked on at stage number fourteen—Glasswell
Street, Horton—at ten forty, so at ten forty-five I must
have been—”
“That doesn't matter,” interrupted Higgins. “Ten
forty is near enough for my purpose. And at eleven fif-
teen?”
“Nearly here, sir. This is the last bus on this route,
and we're due back here at twenty to twelve, so I must
have been near Shoreditch then.”
“H'm.” Higgins stared thoughtfully at the concrete
N


42 THE MURDER ON THE BUS
floor of the garage. This case was unique in his experi-
ence. As a general rule the place where a body was found
afforded some slight indication as to where the criminal
was at the time of the crime, nothing being harder to
move successfully and without comment than a dead body.
Yet this man might have been shot anywhere between
Glasswell Street, Horton, and Shoreditch. A matter of
four miles of bricks and mortar, which possibly housed
sixty thousand souls. He turned abruptly to the constable.
“Ring up Primrose 44523 and ask Dr. Pape if he would
mind coming along. Give him my name, and tell him that
the other doctor is not available at the moment, and that
I'd like an official opinion.”
“Right, sir.” The constable moved off to an instrument
attached to the garage wall, and Inspector Higgins once
more gave his attention to the conductor.
“Do you remember him getting on?”
“As a matter of fact, I do, sir.”
Ah! This was better!
“Well?”
“It was at Glasswell Street, sir. Whilst I was clocking
on. He surprised me by going on top—there being plenty
of room inside.”
“Ah! And where did he book to?”
“Threepenny fare, sir. All the way.”
“Did you go up to the top again?”
“Once, sir. Penny fare this time.”
“And he was all right then?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Was your second fare a man?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Where did he get on?”
“The ‘Fox and Hounds,’ Horton.”
“And where did he alight?”
“A hundred yards farther on, sir.”
“What?” Higgins almost shouted in his surprise.


INSPECTOR HIGGINS ASKS QUESTIONS 43
“Yes, sir. He muttered something about having for-
gotten something. He—he looked—well—er—frightened,
Sir.”
“What was he like?”
“He held a handkerchief to his face, sir. Like as if
he had a bad cold. I didn't notice him much getting on,
and he got off in such a hurry that I hardly had time
to notice him at all.”
“His height, man?”
“Well, sir . . .” The other broke off in an effort at
recollection. -
“Tall? Short? Medium? Was he as big as me?”
“No, sir. He wasn't as tall as you are.”
“As big as your caretaker or whatever he calls him-
self over there?”
“What, Shorty, sir?” The other smiled. “No, sir. He
was taller than him—a good bit taller, sir.” He looked
round at the driver of the bus, then: “I sh'd think he was
about George's size, sir.”
Inspector Higgins looked at the driver. “Five foot
eight?” he queried.
“And a half, sir,” responded the other.
“Right. Five feet eight and a half. Dressed?”
“Trilby hat, sir. Overcoat, collar turned up. And—er
—yessir, with brown boots.”
Higgins turned to the constable, who had returned
from ringing up the police surgeon. “Got that? Right.
'Phone the Yard these particulars. Last seen at the
“Fox and Hounds,’ Horton, at-” A glance at the con-
ductor.
“About five to eleven, sir.”
“Thanks. To be held for enquiry into this business.
Jump to it!”
The constable proceeded to the telephone at the double.
“I don't think the second fare knew anything about it,
sir,” ventured the conductor.


44 THE MURDER ON THE BUS
“Oh?” An inflection in his voice, resentful of this
Comment.
“No, sir. You see, sir, I looked up the steps again
after the other chap had got off, and this bloke was all
right then.”


CHAPTER V
IN WHICH DOCTOR PAPE VOICES AN OPINION
NSPECTOR HIGGINS stared at the man for a mo-
ment without making any comment, and debating in
his mind whether or no he should countermand his in-
structions to Scotland Yard re the second fare. For one
reason, he did not wish to use the vast organisation at
his disposal without good cause, and for another, at the
moment both Press and public alike were very unforgiv-
ing in the event of a mistake. He could well imagine the
flaring headlines were the second fare to be apprehended
and prove to be innocent of any connection with the case.
“SCOTLAND YARD BLUNDERS AGAIN.” “AN-
OTHER INNOCENT MAN QUESTIONED.”
Such thoughts were not pleasant, and in any event
his would be the head on the charger. Higgins sighed.
Ah well ! He would have to chance it, for the second
fare seemed his only clue. He continued to stare at
the conductor, and the man fidgeted under his surveil-
lance.
“So this chap was all right just before eleven, eh?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And what made you look up the steps to see if he
was all right?”
“Well, sir, I don't know really. It was this second
chap what upset me, so to speak. He got on and then
got off, after paying his fare, and I knew that this poor
chap here was the only other chap on the top deck. I
thought perhaps that something was up or—or—some-
thing.” The man broke off, apparently unable to express
his thoughts at the time.
45


46 THE MURDER ON THE BUS
“This second man looked frightened, you say?”
“Yes, sir. Though what there was to frighten him I
don't know.” The conductor paused, then: “’Course,
if this cove had been like he is now I could understand
it.”
“So could I; but according to you he was still alive.
Sure?”
“Positive, sir. He was putting something inside his
jacket pocket.”
“Aha!” Higgins turned to the constable. “And what
did you find in that inside pocket, Constable?”
“A wad o' notes, sir. Here it is, sir. All one-ers.”
Inspector Higgins took the bunch of Treasury notes
from the constable. He picked out two or three notes
haphazard from the bundle and examined each carefully.
They seemed genuine enough. He placed the notes in his
inside pocket.
“I’ll take charge of these, Constable.” Once more he
resumed his questioning of the conductor. “Anyone else
on top of the bus from the time this man got on and
your discovery of him dead?”
“No, sir.”
“And when did you find out he was dead?”
“Not until we drove into the garage here, sir. Then
George here noticed there was a bloke who hadn't got
off. We—er—thought that perhaps he was tight or some-
thing.”
“‘Or something' was right, seemingly.”
“I went up the steps and was just going to tap him on
the shoulder when I saw the blood on his coat, sir. It
was awful. I called up George and the two of us carried
him down. One of the bus inspectors fetched a doctor,
and we called in the constable here who was on duty
outside.”
“H'm. Now then, I would like you and—er—George
here to show me how exactly the man was—er—seated
when you found him.”


DOCTOR PAPE VOICES AN OPINION 47
“Certainly, sir.” They moved off towards the bus, but
the inspector stopped them.
“Not that bus, chapsies. Too-er—too messy. Show me
on one of the other buses.”
The two bus-men then proceeded to a vehicle of similar
type to that on which the man had been found, and,
closely followed by the inspector, mounted the steps.
“This is how he was, sir.” The conductor suited the
action to the word, and seated himself on the back seat to
the left at the top of the steps. He slumped in the corner
at the side of the bus, and let his hands lie limply on the
seat. His legs he stretched out underneath the seat in
front, and sagged his chin upon his chest.
“That right, George?” -
The driver surveyed with critical eye the ensemble,
standing well back to obtain a better view, and turning his
head from side to side as though studying the perspective.
He stepped forward and placed the conductor's peak-cap
more over his eyes, stood back again, then once more
moved forward to make a slight adjustment. The con-
ductor grinned sheepishly.
“That's as he was, sir, as far as I can recollect.”
Inspector Higgins nodded his thanks, and frowned
thoughtfully. Barring the one or two minor adjustments
by the driver, both bus-men seemed to agree as to the pre-
cise position of the deceased man when found. Yet, if they
were right, where was the bullet? It certainly was not in
the bus, unless he had overlooked it, which, in all humility,
he considered most unlikely. He looked at the posing con-
ductor once more in an effort to gauge the probable flight
of the bullet. Yes. It must have been fired from above the
level of the top of the bus, and consequently its flight
would have been downwards. The bullet must be found
in order to establish the type of weapon from which it was
fired.
The sudden ringing of an electric bell completely
startled the group. Higgins swung round quickly, the


DOCTOR PAPE voICES AN OPINION 49
Now, take the case of your second fare. Your first impres-
sion—generally right, by the way—was that on coming
down the steps his face—er—what is that American word?
Oh yes—his face registered fear. This would have been
perfectly understandable had this poor fellow here been
dead, but he wasn't. Now take it a step further, although
considering that this man was alive after your second fare
had alighted I don't really see how it is a step further. You
take another think and say now that the second man's
expression might have been anger. But why anger?”
“Ask me another. Anyhow, sir, I'm sticking to what I
said, for I believe it to be the truth.”
“And might it not be reasonable, sir,” suggested the
driver. “The conductor says that he got off almost as soon
as he got on. I dunno about you, but speaking for meself,
I sh'd've been pretty wild if I’d forgotten something and
had to get off in a hurry.”
“H'm.” Higgins considered this explanation, and,
coupled with the muttered explanation of the man when
alighting, it seemed to hold water.
“Did either of you hear a shot?”
The conductor spoke first, immediately the question had
been asked. “No, sir. Of that I’m absolutely positive. In
fact, I’ve been waiting for you to ask me that, and I'm
dead sure I didn't.”
“What about you, George?”
“Too busy to notice, sir. In any case, I should have
taken it for a backfire or something.”
“Say, Higgins.” It was Dr. Pape speaking. “Did you
know this poor devil had been shot twice?”
“What?”
“Yes. Through the neck and in the foot. Look!”
Inspector Higgins looked. There was no doubt about
it. In fact the bullet was still in the foot, and
“Got it! It's the same bullet, Doc. No wonder I couldn't
find it. I’ve been looking all over the bus for that bullet,
trying to find where it had gone. Yes. If fired from above


50 THE MURDER ON THE BUS
it's quite in accordance with the facts to find it in his foot.
Good Lord! I'm getting slow. I never thought of that.”
“Glad you're pleased about it,” remarked the police
surgeon, dryly. “Personally, if I had your job, I would
have preferred to find the bullet in the woodwork of the
bus. Then at least you could have been sure that the man
was killed whilst riding on the bus. Now, for all you know,
he may simply have been dumped there.”
“Some job that would be, Doc. Come and have a look
at the bus. That may make you alter your mind.”
“Certainly. But it can't make me alter my mind very
well—I haven't made it up yet.”
Together they mounted the steps of the bus and the
police surgeon gazed at the bloodstained seat for a mo-
ment. Then:
“You’re right, Higgins. That poor fellow must have
been seated here when he was shot. It is obvious. And from
the angle of flight it would appear that the shot must have
been fired from a height of about—well—say twice the
height of the bus. First or possibly second floor of a house
on the route, I sh'd say.”
“How long's he been dead?”
“About five or six hours, at a rough guess.”
Inspector Higgins pulled out his watch and stared at it
with surprise.
“Good Lord! I had no idea it was as late as this. Half-
past four! I'd better let these poor chaps get along home.
Then we want an ambulance.” He hurried down the bus
steps.
“Constable, take the names and addresses of the driver
and conductor, please. Tell them they'll be wanted in due
course for the inquest. Also apologise for having kept
them so long. Then telephone for an ambulance. Then give
me the other contents of the pockets of the deceased.”
The constable hurried to carry out his instructions,
whilst Inspector Higgins called the caretaker.
“I would like to see the company's records, and get


DOCTOR PAPE VOICES AN OPINION 5I
some other particulars. Can you oblige me with the address
of the manager or of someone in authority?”
“Certainly, sir. But if you wait here another half an
hour the morning manager will be here. Our company
doesn't sleep long, sir. The first buses run out of here just
after five.”
“Right. I'll be here in any case. Now then, Doc, let's
hear what you've got to say.”
“Nothing much, Higgins. There's no signs of scorch-
ing, so it is fairly apparent that the man was shot from a
distance of more than six feet. Then the wound. Caused
by a rifle-shot I should say, but I can tell better after I've
extracted the bullet. I think I'm right in suggesting that
it is not a revolver.”
“H'm. Couldn't have been shot from the steps, then.”
“I don't think so.”
“That lets out the conductor, then. I'm not exactly
suspicious of him, but I'm careful. He was pretty quick
to deny having heard a shot. Too quick, in my opinion.
And—could the shot have been fired from another bus,
do you think?”
“Hardly. You forget he was seated on the near side.”
“H'm. Your theory of a house seems the most likely
up to now. I must look into it.” There was a sound of a
whistle, then the clanging of doors as the huge garage
gates were flung open by the caretaker, and the score of
men entered the premises. One and all they made for the
still form in the corner. News of the tragedy had already
* reached them, seemingly. Higgins shrugged his shoulders.
They could do no harm provided they did not touch the
body, which was most unlikely, and might do some good.
He walked over to them.
“Anybody recognise him?”
A man in the uniform of a conductor stepped closer to
the body and peered at it intently, then turned with a
startled expression on his face.
“Blimey! Yus!”


CHAPTER VI
IN WEHICH DOCTOR PAPE IS SURPRISED
IN SPECTOR HIGGINS looked sharply at the man
who had thus asserted his recognition of the body. Like
the conductor of the other bus, he was getting on in years,
having a seamed, weatherbeaten face with twinkling, in-
telligent eyes. Higgins felt instinctively that the man
could be trusted.
“You recognise him, eh? Well, who is he?”
“I dunno who he is, sir. But I’ve seen him before—on
my bus—once or twice. Funny sort of cove, in my opinion.
Gardener or something, I should say. Anyhow, he often
wears a buttonhole.”
Higgins smiled at this assumption, for if everyone who
wore a buttonhole was a gardener, then they must be two
a penny!
“Often?”
“Well, sir, he's wore one each time I’ve seen him. If he
hasn't had it on when he's got on the bus, he's put one on
during the journey.”
Strange! Higgins pondered this for a moment, then:
“How many times in all do you think you've seen
him P”
“Three or four.”
“H'm. I like your ‘often'!” Higgins commented dryly.
“And you said once or twice just now.” He paused
thoughtfully for a moment, then:
“Now think carefully. On those occasions when you
have seen him, what time of day was it?”
The man considered this for a moment before replying,
then answered slowly:
“Latish, sir. Latish.”
52


DOCTOR PAPE IS SURPRISED 53
“Can you be more definite than that?”
“Well, sir, as far as I can recollec', I sh'd say it was
when I’ve had charge of the last bus.”
“Ah!” The last bus! He peered intently at the man.
“Sure ?”
“No, sir. I’m not. But that's the sort o' idea I've got.”
And with this Inspector Higgins had to be content. The
last bus! What, if anything, was the peculiar significance
of this? Would the last bus on this route be crowded or
not? Generally speaking, the last bus on any route was
full. The manager might be able to enlighten him on this
point. And the buttonhole business, and the absence of any
clue as to the man's identity—was this deliberate or ac-
cidental? There were many lines of investigation open to
him, none of which would seem to lead anywhere. This
man would be posted as missing by his anxious relatives
very soon, and this, to Inspector Higgins, seemed his best
bet. Unless, of course, anything came of that second fare.
Whilst the inspector was thus cogitating, the ambulance
drew into the garage yard, and with all due solemnity and
with the utmost reverence the unfortunate victim was con-
veyed to the mortuary. As the ambulance left the garage,
the car of the manager pulled into the yard, and a short,
fussy, well-dressed man stepped therefrom.
“An accident?” he queried, of no one in particular.
“Not exactly, sir,” replied Higgins, walking towards
the car.
“What d'ye mean ‘Not exactly'l And who the deuce
are you?”
Inspector Higgins produced his official card, which the
other accepted with a flourish.
“Inspector Higgins. Ah! H'm Step inside, please.”
He preceded the inspector to a small office, the door of
which he opened with a key from a bunch taken from his
pocket, and ushered him into a chair. Then he lit the gas-
fire, closed the window, turned up his coat-collar, shud-
dered, and turned to Higgins.


54 THE MURDER ON THE BUS
“Brrrh! It's damned cold. Well, what can I do for you,
sir?”
Briefly the inspector outlined the tragedy, and unfolded
his story without interruption, save for sundry “Tut-tuts,”
and “Dear me's,” from the manager. When he had fin-
ished:
“And what, exactly, do you want from me, Inspector?”
“First of all, sir, particulars of this bus-route. X87. Is
it a busy route, for instance?”
“X87, eh? No, sir. It is not a busy route. Far from it.
It doesn't pay, sir. It doesn't pay. It is what we call an easy
route. Every conductor on this route is within a year or
two of his pension. Elderly fellows glad of the rest. Few
passengers, sir. Ruinous route, I call it.”
“Then why operate it, sir?”
“Why?” the manager shouted, his eyes protruding with
the intensity of his feelings. “Why? Because we have to.
If we only ran the routes which paid, half the buses would
be taken off the London streets. But we supply service,
sir. And service is not always remunerative. Yet these
slack routes have one good aspect. It enables us to give
some of our older employees an easier task.”
Higgins had been an interested auditor of this perora-
tion. For the first time in his life he realised that the Lon-
don Transport Corporation had a soul—that this vast
organisation was human enough to give its old servants
easier jobs. Then he wondered whether the fact that it
was an easy route had any bearing on its use by the
murdered man. Did he travel on the top deck to avoid
contact with other passengers? He must make a note of
that.
“Now, sir. A further question or two. The conductor
in question, Charles Northcote—what can you tell me of
him?”
“Northcote—Northcote. H'm.” The manager pulled
open the drawer of a card-index and “walked” down the


DOCTOR PAPE IS SURPRISED 55
tabulated letters with the first and second fingers of his
right hand until the letter N was reached. A moment's
search, then he withdrew a card. “Here we are, Inspector.
Northcote. Born 18— Good Lord! Due for his pension
next year! More expense! Still, a good man. Served us
faithfully and well since we started. H'm. Good Lord! I
wonder whether we are liable for damages if a fellow
gets murdered on one of our buses. I must look up the
point. Dear me! I hadn't thought of that. Inspector, this
is serious!”
Higgins surveyed the man for a moment amusedly.
For the first time since its recital the tale seemed to have
struck home at the manager, and through the pocket of
his company. He smiled.
“You’re quite right, sir. It is serious. Now then, sir.
It's easy enough to calculate the average rate of progress
of the bus during its journey from Glasswell Street to
the garage here, but can you tell me the greatest rate at
which the bus would travel on that journey?”
“Twelve miles per hour, Inspector,” replied the mana-
ger promptly. “You see, under your Police Regulations”
—he bowed formally—“we are forbidden to exceed this
speed. Of course, some of our drivers might do so, but we
are not responsible for that.”
“Thank you, sir. That is all the information I require.”
Inspector Higgins left the manager's office to find Dr.
Pape waiting impatiently outside.
“Come along, Higgins. I've been waiting in case you
want a lift back to the Yard.”
“That's very kind, Doc. Shan't keep you a moment.”
The inspector then gave a few instructions to the con-
stable, and arranged with the responsible official that the
bus of the tragedy should not be sent into service for a
few days. Then, having gathered up the few worldly pos-
sessions of the murdered man, he called to the police sur-
geon, and a few seconds later was bowling westwards in


56 THE MURDER ON THE BUS
his car. For the first few minutes there was silence, then:
“Well, Higgins, old top, I’d sooner it were you
than me.”
Inspector Higgins awoke from his reverie with a start,
but responded good-naturedly:
“What-d'you mean, Doc?”
“This murder. Nothing much to go on, as far as I can
make out.”
“Oh, I dunno! Might be better, of course: then again,
it might be a dam' sight worse.”
“I’m glad you're so cheery about it.”
“It doesn't do to give up hope so early in the game,
Doc. If we did we should never get anywhere. Take this
case, for instance. We know the chap was killed from a
hundred yards or so past the ‘Fox and Hounds,’ Horton,
to the garage. Somewhere in between, I mean. Now, ac-
cording to the first doctor, who saw the man within half
an hour of the bus's return to the garage, he had been
dead about an hour. The bus returned at eleven forty-five.
It follows, therefore, that the poor fellow was shot about
a quarter past eleven. Right! Now then—we must make
due allowances for the doctor's estimate of the time of
death. After all, it is so very easy to say one hour when
perhaps fifty minutes would have been nearer the mark.
In any case, with all due respect, you doctors can only
be approximate—I mean to say, you cannot be definite
enough—you cannot say without fear of contradiction that
a man died at exactly eleven and a half minutes past the
hour—or some similar time.” He paused, but the police
surgeon made no comment, then resumed: “Now where
were we? Oh, I know! This poor chap died between say
eleven and eleven-fifteen. He was all right at eleven when
the conductor took the trouble to go up the steps to see.
The man was shot in the back of the neck. What does that
tell us? That the murderer was a good shot. Must have
been, with a moving target. Then again—it was the last
bus. It was dark, and to hit any target requires light. We


DOCTOR PAPE IS SURPRISED 57
may therefore safely assume that the shot was fired just
after the bus had passed a lamp-post.”
“I wonder”—casually from Dr. Pape.
“Why 7"
“What about the lamp on the bus which lights up the
indicator board at the rear?”
“A good point, Doc, but it won't hold water. I’ve tried
that. There is a lamp at the back of the bus, but it will
not illuminate the head and shoulders of anyone sitting
in the rear seat.”
“I see.”
“To resume: According to your theory, the shot was
fired from the first or second floor of a house on the route.
From eleven to eleven-fifteen the bus travelled about a
mile, attaining at various points a speed not exceeding
twelve miles an hour. In that mile there are possibly sixty
lamp-posts. Of these say thirty are on the left-hand side—
the side the man was sitting. We cannot, of course, rule
out the others, but we'll deal with these thirty first. We
can therefore assume that the man or woman who fired
the shot was in a room of a house almost level with one
of these thirty lamp-posts. Again: it is more than likely
that whoever fired the shot was not an exceptionally fine
marksman—therefore he would need to be in a house,
near a lamp, just before or just after a recognised stop
on the route—where the bus has slowed down or has not
yet picked up its speed. Our search is now considerably
narrowed.”
“Excellent, Higgins. Sounds almost too easy. I suppose
there can't be more than half a dozen of such houses
which meet with all your requirements.” He paused for a
moment, then: “But why return to the Yard if you've
progressed so far?”
“I’m not, Doc. I asked your chauffeur to drop me at the
police station, and here we are. Thank you very much.”
Without more ado, Inspector Higgins nodded to the police
surgeon, opened the door of the car, and alighted.


58 THE MURDER ON THE BUS
“Well, of all the damned cheek!” Dr. Pape muttered
weakly, then relapsed into the comfortably upholstered
seat of his car.
Five minutes later Inspector Higgins had completed
his explanations to the superintendent of the police sta-
tion, and arrangements for an intensive search of certain
houses along the route were quickly made. Two police
cars were placed at the inspector's disposal, and, with a
dozen plain-clothes men, at once proceeded to the “Fox
and Hounds,” Horton, which was to be the rendezvous.
Following the route of the X87 buses, Inspector Higgins
carried into effect his theory of the lamps, and dropped
his men in pairs at such of the houses which seemed to
fulfil his requirements: i.e., near a lamp and just before
or just after a recognised stop on the route.
The men had definite instructions. Had anyone on the
first or second floor a sporting rifle or other gun? Had
they a licence? Serious matter to carry a gun without a
licence! As a matter of fact someone had reported that
a shot had been fired late last night, and they had been
sent to clear the matter up. Any information would be
paid for. Names and addresses of all the tenants were to
be obtained, and all other available particulars which might
be of use in an investigation. Anyone filling the bill to be
taken to the station for enquiry.
Having stationed his men, Inspector Higgins returned
to the “Fox and Hounds” to await developments, and a
long and dreary wait it was In due course the men
drifted back to the rendezvous—each pair reporting
failure. A considerable amount of information as to
the sundry tenants had, however, been accumulated, and—
having returned with the men to the station, thanked the
superintendent for his assistance, and left instructions for
the remaining houses on the route to be investigated—
Inspector Higgins returned with this information to Scot-
land Yard for it to be thoroughly sifted.


DOCTOR PAPE IS SURPRISED 59
On such a job Sergeant Mercier was invaluable. Be-
fore the day was over he had reported to the inspector
that, whilst some of the tenants were not exactly desirable
citizens, each one was what he purported to be. Inspector
Higgins turned over to a subordinate the questioning of
such of the tenants as Sergeant Mercier suggested were
‘doubtful,” and gave instructions that he was not to be
disturbed.
Then he lit his pipe and reviewed the case from the
comfort of his office chair. There was, indeed, little to go
upon. Mercier had reported that the murdered man was
not on the files at the Yard, so seemingly he had been
respectable—or lucky. (This was Higgins the cynic!)
There was no means of identification, yet—half a
mo'ſ The stuff found on him. This had been looked over
by the constable who had first arrived at the garage, but
had not yet been officially enquired into by Scotland
Yard. Inspector Higgins walked to his overcoat and
removed a parcel therefrom. This he carefully un-
wrapped and strewed its contents upon his desk in front
of him.
A packet of cigarettes of a well-known brand, a match-
box with seven matches in it, two bus tickets, the wad
of notes, one half-crown, one shilling, and fivepence in
coppers. (At the inquest this identical list was published,
save that the word “bronze” was substituted for the word
“coppers.” Sergeant Mercier always insisted that this sub-
stitution was accounted for by the reluctance of policemen
to use the word “coppers”!)
The wad of notes. According to the conductor, when he
mounted the steps after the mysterious second fare had
alighted, the murdered man was putting something inside
his jacket pocket. And this wad of notes had been found
therein! Was there any connection between the two men?
Would the frightened expression of the second fare be
accounted for by the fact that he had seen the murdered
man handling this bundle of notes, and, being hard up,


6o THE MURDER ON THE BUS
had decided to “flee from temptation”? The theory was
ingenious, if weak-kneed.
The bundle was at least half-an-inch thick, and the notes
were old Treasury notes, still legal tender, although the
new Bank of England notes were well in circulation.
Mechanically, Inspector Higgins started to count them
. . ninety-seven, ninety-eight, ninety-nine, one hundred!
One hundred pounds exactly.
“Rum!” muttered the inspector.


CHAPTER VII
IN WEIICH INSPECTOR HIGGINS TAKES A BUS-RIDE
INº HIGGINS opened the right-hand drawer
of his desk and took out a rubber band, which he
stretched round the bundle of notes. Then he turned his at-
tention to the bus-tickets. One was quite new, and under-
neath its distinctive number at the top was printed in small
type: “Service X87.” This was obviously the ticket pur-
chased by the unfortunate man the previous evening, for it
was punched at the fare stage—Glasswell Street to Garage.
Further proof of his journey, if any were required.
The other ticket was old and badly rubbed, as though
it had been left in the man's pocket for a considerable time.
Higgins picked it up, and was mildly surprised to find
that the ticket related to the same bus service, X87, and
was punched for the identical journey. What could be
deduced from this? It was obvious that the journey had
been undertaken before, so one might assume that the
business for which it was undertaken was also the same.
Then the place where the man had boarded the bus, Glass-
well Street—could one assume that this was near to the
home of the deceased? Either that or it was his nearest
point of contact with Route No. X87. Was Glasswell
Street near a railway station, and, if so, what was the
line? Worth looking into. And another thing . . .
Inspector Higgins nodded in his chair, and a few
moments later was sound asleep, which, considering that
he had not retired at all the previous night, was not sur-
prising.
He awoke with a start, his limbs cramped and chilled to
61


62 THE MURDER ON THE BUS
the marrow. His instructions that he was not to be dis-
turbed had been faithfully carried out. He stood up, walked
to the switch on the opposite wall near to the door, avoid-
ing by instinct the chair near his desk, and turned on the
electric light. The resultant glare dazzled his eyes for a
brief moment, and he frowned portentously; then, his eyes
becoming accustomed to the light, he pulled out his gun-
metal watch and stared at the dial unbelievingly.
“Great Pontius Pilate!”
A quarter to ten! He had been asleep for—goodness
knows how long! He shook his head shudderingly, striv-
ing to collect his scattered thoughts. He glanced at his
desk. At least no one had pinched the bundle of notes
whilst he had been asleep! One must be thankful for small
mercies. The bus-tickets, too. Again he glanced at his
watch, but this time merely to make a mental calculation
of the time it should take for him to reach Glasswell
Street. Yes! He could do it comfortably.
Inspector Higgins removed his hat and coat from a
peg on the wall of his room, then, having locked the money
in his desk, together with the bus-tickets, he gave a final
glance round the room, then closed the door.
His exit from the Yard was not entirely without inci-
dent, for his unexpected passage through the waiting-room
caused consternation to four constables seated at a table
therein, and broke up, precipitously, what looked sus-
piciously like an unauthorised game of cards. However,
his curt “Good-night” and his apparent obliviousness of
the untoward happening not only closed the incident, but
sent up his stock, in the minds of the constables, at least
fifty per cent.
Inspector Higgins had, from long experience, become
convinced that a crime was best solved on the spot. Theo-
rising in the armchair of his room helped, of course, but to
obtain results it was necessary to be on the actual place
where the crime was committed. Thus, when he found that
he had slept so long, he at once decided that, being more or


INSPECTOR HIGGINS TAKES A BUS-RIDE 65
He would have given a great deal to have known from
which room the fatal shot had been fired, for this must
be the first step to find the murderer.
“Ah Well!”
There was a break in the clouds overhead, and a glori-
ous moon, just past the full, slowly slid into view, and lit
up the street with a pale luminance. Inspector Higgins
leaned back in his seat and scowled at it malevolently.
“Damnation!”
His wonderful theory of the houses near the lamps was
completely shattered, for the moon was strong enough to
light up the top of the bus, and so now, instead of just
about half a dozen houses, every house on the route was
suspect. “Why the blazes didn't I think of that before?” he
muttered. He called down to the conductor, who quickly
mounted the steps.
“Was there a moon last night?” he queried, without
preamble.
“Yessir. A lovely moon. It was a glorious evening.”
“H'm.” Higgins stared at the moon abstractedly, whilst
the conductor fidgeted on the top step; then, after a few
minutes of silence, the inspector noticed him.
“Hallo! Still here?” he asked unnecessarily.
The man retreated a few steps and then remounted
them. It was immediately apparent to Higgins that the
man had something to say, but was a bit dubious as to
how to say it.
“What's up, old chap?” he asked encouragingly.
“Well, sir, it's like this. I thought of something in bed
this morning which may not have anything to do with
last night, of course, sir, but I thought perhaps—you see,
sir . . .”
“Come along, man! Let's have it!”
“It's nothing much really, sir, but . . .
“That's all right. It may be useful. Spit it out,” he
encouraged coarsely.
“Well, sir, it's like this . . .”
3 *


66 THE MURDER ON THE BUS
“So you remarked before.”
“That cove who was killed last night, sir, had a rose
in his buttonhole when he got on the bus, sir.”
“Good Lord, man! Is that all?”
“No, sir. What struck me was this: when we lifted the
poor chap down his buttonhole was gone.”
“Ah!” Inspector Higgins remained thoughtful for a
moment or two. What was it that other conductor had
said about a buttonhole? “If he hasn't had it on when he's
got on the bus, he's put one on during the journey.” Yes.
Those were the man's words. Something fishy about this
buttonhole business! Not the fact that the man made a
habit of wearing one, but that he sometimes put one on
during the journey, and sometimes discarded it during
the journey. Suddenly:
“Got it!”
“What, sir?” queried the conductor, open-mouthed.
“Nothing,” responded Higgins mendaciously.
Without a doubt the buttonhole served as a signal.
But of what? . . . And of whom? . . .


CHAPTER VIII
IN WEHICH INSPECTOR HIGGINS ENTERS AN EMPTY HOUSE
HE bus swung through the garage gates and In-
spector Higgins alighted, and as soon as the con-
ductor had handed in his tickets and timesheet he engaged
him once more in conversation.
“I may have asked you before, but will you please tell
me whether or not the top of the bus is ever crowded?”
“Very rarely, sir,” replied the conductor. “You see,
sir,” he went on in explanation, “this route is what we
term an easy route, for the main reason that there are so
few top-deckers. It ain't as though we're a country route,
sir. Far from it. People use our bus for business travel
only. No one would dream of going for what is generally
known as a bus-ride on our route. Neighbourhood not
nice enough. Even on the top there's not much fresh air.
A top-decker is an exception rather than the rule. That's
why our buses have no covered tops, sir.”
“I see. Thanks. I'll be getting along.”
Inspector Higgins left the garage and started to walk
back over the X87 route. Now that the moon had upset
his calculations as to the houses from which the shot
might have been fired he wished to have another look.
He proceeded slowly, making a mental note of such
houses as he deemed worthy of further investigation, and
a pencilled note of such as were unlighted, for, he argued
within himself, the shot must have come from an un-
lighted house with an open window, and an unlighted
house of the previous evening was scarcely likely to be
lit up to-night. Not exactly sound reasoning, perhaps,
but it would at least hold *


68 THE MURDER ON THE BUS
Suddenly he stopped, astounded to find a house in com-
plete darkness. Furthermore, it was empty, which, con-
sidering the densely populated area, was of itself a
strange phenomenon. There was a notice pasted on the
wall, and Inspector Higgins pulled out an electric torch
the better to read it. It proved to be a printed notice of
the sanitary inspector's condemning the property as un-
fit for human habitation. The windows were blackened
with dust and smoke (such as were still whole), but the
majority had been broken, in all probability by the more
exuberant youth of the locality.
Inspector Higgins mounted the four front steps and
tried the front door. It was immovable, as he had ex-
pected. Then he descended the dozen odd steps to the
area door, which he pushed gently. This also did not
move. He peered through the broken window of the area,
but could see little but dust and sundry balls and tops
of the more careless of the children of the neighbour-
hood. The window being barred accounted for the fact
that these toys had not been retrieved by their presumably
adventurous owners.
The area itself was littered with all sorts of rubbish:
sheets of newspapers, bits of torn posters and placards,
innumerable bus-tickets, a filthy cap, an old boot, some
dried leaves and some confetti. To the inspector the dried
leaves were an inexplicable phenomenon, whilst the pres-
ence of confetti in this dead house seemed almost sac-
rilege.
There was also a spot of oil.
Not a piece of confetti, as Higgins had at first believed,
but a spot of oil. The reflected moonlight revealed it.
Darned funny. Higgins gazed upwards to see from
whence the drop had fallen, and found himself staring
at the underside of the steps to the front door. Ergo,
whoever had dropped that globule of oil had been in the
area. Very careless! And why oil? Higgins glanced at
the back door, to discover immediately that its hinges


HIGGINS ENTERS AN EMPTY HOUSE 69
–
had recently been oiled. Aha! “Let me see now!” he
reflected. “When I tried this door just now I merely
pushed it. I should have turned the handle.” He gripped
the doorhandle and turned it gently.
The door swung open without a sound.
Inspector Higgins did not immediately enter—not that
he was afraid, for he had the average, possibly more
than the average, stock of courage. It was merely that he
was a great believer in the old adage that discretion is
the better part of valour. Furthermore, he had learned
as a child a pleasant little ditty about a spider and a fly.
The word “fly” had often been used in connection with
the inspector, but always as an adjective—never as a
noun. (He was considered a “fly” cop by most of the
denizens of the underworld with whom he had come into
contact.) Yet here was an open door simply crying for
investigation'
Higgins tiptoed to the top of the area steps in the
hope of finding a constable on the beat. He waited ten
minutes, but had no luck. He dared not leave the place
in case whoever was inside (if anyone was inside) should
leave the place unnoticed. One by one the lights of ad-
jacent houses were extinguished, and the traffic and
pedestrians seemed to have ceased entirely. A belated
taxi came bowling along, and Higgins ran to intercept
it, but the driver merely shook his head (to discourage
whom he imagined to be a prospective fare) and acceler-
ated. The inspector swore luridly and made a mental note
of the number of the cab.
He felt in his pockets for a sheet of paper on which
to write a note, but decided that this would be useless
without a messenger to deliver the note. He waited three
more minutes, then gave it up. He would enter the place
alone, but must leave some signal to the constable on the
beat when he should arrive. He removed his bowler hat,
then, with a sigh of regret at the needless waste of esti-
mable headgear, he jabbed it on to one of the spikes of


7o THE MURDER ON THE BUS
the railings protecting the area. Then he descended once
more the area steps, opened the door and entered, leav-
ing the door wide open. At any rate, he reflected, the hat
should awaken the constable's curiosity, whilst the open
door should clinch any suspicions which might be aroused.
“Well, here goes!”
He proceeded warily along the passage from the area
door. The floor-boards were badly rotted, and he began .
to feel dubious as to whether they would bear his great
weight. The walls were so dilapidated that the wonder
was not so much that the house had been declared unfit
for human habitation but that it had not collapsed long
before this. There was a room on his right, but he had
no need to open the door—in fact, this was impossible,
for the door was no longer there, the rusty hinges alone
remaining—and it needed but a mere flash of his torch
to ascertain that the room was empty. It was the room
he had peered into from the area.
Then the accident happened.
Inspector Higgins should certainly have exercised more
care, but the chief blame lay at the feet of some diminu-
tive citizen who was careless enough to throw a wooden
ball through the window at some earlier date and from
whence it had rolled through the doorway of the room
into the passage outside. Higgins, having flashed his lamp
into the room, turned to proceed further along the pas-
sage, took one step forward, then trod on the ball. He let
out a yell of apprehension as he lost his balance, flung
out his arms wildly, then fell to the floor with a resound-
ing thud which shook the very foundations of the house,
and lay there for a few seconds, completely winded.
His language was fulsome.
He picked himself from off the floor, and found that
his clothes were covered with dust and dirt. He also noted
with the aid of his torch the offending ball, which he
kicked in disgust. The noise he had made already must
have warned any illegal occupant of the house of his


72 THE MURDER ON THE BUS
be no need to have an open window, either, for the panes
were practically non-existent.
He could just see the area railings. Yes. There was
his bowler hat doing its best. Sheer waste. Then In-
spector Higgins noticed a constable with measured tread
strolling majestically down the street, and smilingly
awaited developments.
What would be the man's reaction on finding the open
door?
The constable came slowly nearer, and Higgins was
somewhat intrigued to discover that the man was smoking
a surreptitious cigarette. Still, being one-thirty a.m.,
there was, perhaps, little harm done.
Suddenly the constable stopped. He had obviously seen
the hat. He walked forward to investigate, and, using
both hands, wrenched the battered bowler from the railing-
spike. He then inspected the hat carefully, pulling out
the lining and punching it into shape. Then he shook his
head from side to side, either at the waste of such a per-
fectly good hat, or because it was past redemption, held
it for a moment or two in his right hand, then pitched
it into the gutter. His measured tread resumed, in three
minutes he was out of sight.
“Well—I’ll—be—damned l’’
Inspector Higgins stared at the corner round which
the constable had disappeared, and cursed wonderingly
beneath his breath. Now that there was no sign of life in
the street below there was an eerie sense of desolation
about the house. Still, now that he was here he intended
to make a thorough investigation. And it might as well
be done in comfort. He would follow the worthy con-
stable's advice. He pulled out his pipe and started to fill
it, lethargically. Lord! He'd been in some funny situa-
tions in his time (mechanically he released the button
of his torch and placed it in his pocket), and some pretty
tight ones, too. Excluding the war, when everybody else
had been in the same boat, there had been many occasions


HIGGINS ENTERS AN EMPTY HOUSE 73
when his life had been endangered. Gosh! But some people
had some funny jobs. Still, life was all the better for a
little excitement, provided, of course, that one did not
get too much of it. His first real scrap had been just
before the war, soon after he had joined the Force, and
he had been frightened to death. Still, it was wonderful
the sense of security which a uniform provided. It was
as if one knew that the entire Force was behind one.
This sense of security remained, though in a much di-
minished form, when one discarded the uniform to become
a plain-clothes man. True, the public, criminal and non-
criminal, had not the same respect for a non-uniformed
man, so that one had to discount the moral support which
a uniform provided; yet, as most plain-clothes men
worked in pairs, the matter was evened up. There is,
and always has been, a certain glory in working single-
handed, but “Give me a pal, every time!” reflected
Higgins.
He struck a match and lit his pipe.
A neighbouring clock struck two, and the chorus was
taken up by sundry other clocks in the distance. Remark-
able how sound carries on a still night!
Then complete and utter quietude.
A soft thud, five quick footsteps across the floor over-
head, and silence again.
Then Inspector Higgins, to his own intense disgust,
felt his hair rise on end!


CHAPTER IX
IN WEHICH A PIECE OF WOOD COMES IN HANDY
66 OSH!” Inspector Higgins had been holding his
breath unwittingly since the sound of the foot-
steps, and now he slowly emitted it through puffed cheeks.
So there was an occupant!
He tiptoed to the door of the room and carefully
pushed it until it was almost closed. Then he waited.
Whoever was upstairs at this moment was in for a nasty
shock upon descending.
The wait was becoming wearisome, yet Higgins was
loth to go up the stairs after the intruder, for in such
circumstances the advantage is always with the man com-
ing down, and a live constable is infinitely preferable to
a dead (or disabled) inspector!
After a wait of five minutes, nothing having happened,
Inspector Higgins began to have some slight misgiving
that the intruder upstairs might be cognisant of his pres-
ence. Then it occurred to him that whoever was overhead
must know he was in the house unless the person had
arrived after him. And if the man had arrived after him,
why had he not been warned by the open area door?
There was something distinctly fishy here! Still, if it
developed into a waiting game, Higgins was quite pre-
pared to back himself against all comers, for he had in-
finite patience when it suited his book. In ordinary, every-
day matters he was as impatient as the average man.
For example, he preferred to walk rather than wait for
a bus, even though in due course he was overtaken by
that bus and actually continued his journey in it. A late
train also roused his ire, as did a hesitant witness. In
74


A PIECE OF WOOD COMES IN HANDY 75
the minor things of life patience was not his virtue, but
in the things that matter Job was an also-ran compared
with the inspector. He had waited for years for a certain
criminal, high in society, to make a slip, and that man
was now languishing at Dartmoor. On another occasion
Inspector Higgins and a desperate criminal had, by a
peculiar combination of circumstances, become locked to-
gether in a dark room in which neither could see the other,
yet each was aware of the other's presence. Sound alone
was of any use, and it developed into a waiting game
for one or the other to make some sound and thus betray
his exact location. The criminal's nerve had broken first
and Higgins got his man. Another time—
Hsst! Movement at last!
Inspector Higgins applied his ear to the crack of the
door, nerving himself for the attack he proposed to make
as soon as the intruder reached the doorway, and, with
one hand upon the doorhandle, made ready to fling open
the door at the crucial moment. He listened with bated
breath. Without doubt there was movement of some kind
in the house. Stealthy footsteps. . . .
“Hell!” murmured the inspector, as his ears became
attuned to the shuffling sounds. The footsteps were com-
ing up the stairs!
“Lumme! There's two on 'em!” he muttered, ungram-
matically.
This was serious. He didn't mind in the least taking
on both of the intruders, but he was somewhat appre-
hensive as to the possible outcome. The footsteps shuffled
nearer—the man was now in the passage—a rustling upon
the wall outside the room indicated that the man was
feeling his way along the passage. Inspector Higgins
tightened his grip of the doorknob-ready for anything.
The footsteps ceased, and the inspector could hear the
steady breathing of the man outside the door. Then he
felt a pressure on the doorhandle, and it turned slightly
in his grasp. He tensed his muscles, ready to spring.
-


76 THE MURDER ON THE BUS
The pressure on the knob suddenly ceased, there was
a quick intake of breath by the man outside, then the
handle slowly returned to normal.
Now what? Did that sudden intake of breath indicate
that the man realised that all was not well within the
room?
A brief pause—then the resumption of the footsteps
along the passage to the bottom of the flight of stairs
leading to the floor above. Inspector Higgins was puzzled.
Now that the crisis had been postponed a minor reaction
set in. He relaxed his muscles and released his hold on
the doorknob.
“What the devil's up with 'em 7” Inspector Higgins,
who a few moments previously had been priding himself
upon the patience which he exercised on such occasions
as this, was becoming rattled. Why had the man aban-
doned his obvious intention to enter the room and pro-
ceeded to the bottom of the stairs, where, as far as Hig-
gins could make out, he was still waiting? There was a
nigger in the woodpile! But was the man still waiting
at the bottom of the next flight of stairs? Was it not
possible that he had joined forces with the “footsteps”
above and even now the pair were creeping noiselessly
along the passage contemplating a joint attack upon his
person?
Not a comforting thought! Perhaps they were both
armed. That would be bad—very bad! For Inspector
Higgins rarely carried firearms, and certainly had not
done so when he left the Yard to catch the last bus to
the garage.
Not a sound. Then the inspector had another devas-
tating thought. Supposing that the pair had joined forces,
and, far from contemplating an attack, were more con-
cerned with getting away unnoticed. It would be a fine
thing if he were to remain in this room with the door
closed whilst the two of them calmly walked out of the
house.


A PIECE OF WOOD COMES IN HANDY 77
Curse it! If he could only see what they were up to !
If only one of them would make a sound ! If only the
second intruder (who might or might not be at the bot-
tom of the next flight of stairs) would give some sign
of his presence!
“Too many ‘ifs' in this game—better make sure,” he
reflected.
Once more he gripped the doorknob and began gently
to turn it. As soon as the catch of the lock cleared the
socket he edged the door towards him for about half
an inch, then silently released his hold on the handle.
Then, with infinite care and an earnest hope that the door
would open noiselessly, he began to pull the door towards
him. At last it was sufficiently wide for him to pass
through should he so desire, yet he waited a few moments
fully expecting a concerted rush from the stairs. Nothing
doing!
Slowly and quietly he leaned forward an inch at a time,
his head turned in the direction of the stairs, until at
last with one eye he gazed down the passage. It was too
dark to see anything at all. He leaned still further out
of the doorway, peering blindly into the darkness.
Something hard and heavy crashed on his skull.
A very brief period of insensibility, then Inspector
Higgins was brought back to consciousness by a bright
light shining on his face. His head ached abominably
and he felt sick, yet he determined to “play possum” for
a few minutes until his head had cleared, then to make
an effort to come to grips with his assailant.
“Ber-limey!” A voice tinged with awe and a large
measure of apprehension made this seemingly involuntary
ejaculation.
“What's up, mate?”
(Two of them! So they had united forces. Higgins
abandoned for the time being his intention to force an
attack.)


78 THE MURDER ON THE BUS
“’Strewth ! How the devil was I to know he'd be mixed
up in this?”
“What are you driving at, man?”
“It-it's old Higgins!” The words came with a rush,
and the inspector, hearing his name, concentrated his
reeling brain on the voice, and immediately recognised
it. He sat up, blinking into the ray of an electric torch.
“A—a-are you all right, sir?”
“You—poor—mutt!” A wealth of invective in the
voice, yet the effort of speaking sent an excruciating pain
through his head, and with a weary gesture the inspector
gripped his temples, then ran his hands through his hair,
and gingerly felt a sizeable bump at the back of his head.
“Who's with you, Goldfinch?”
“Constable Smart, sir.”
A brief period during which Inspector Higgins made
a valiant effort to collect his thoughts, then:
“Did you get the others?”
“There was only one, sir. He escaped down the drain-
pipe at the back. We didn't worry much, sir. You see,
we—er—we thought that—er—we thought that as we'd
got one of you—er—that is, sir . . .” The man broke off,
completely at a loss, but Inspector Higgins knew exactly
what he was trying to say. Not being aware of Higgins's
identity, they had assumed that he was one of a pair of
malefactors, and as such could be made to reveal the
identity of the other who had escaped. A reasonable ex-
planation, perhaps, yet it did not help to diminish the
lump at the back of his head!
“Tell me all about it, please.”
“Yessir, b–but—you know, sir, I’m awfully sorry
about—er xx
“Cut it out!”
“Well, sir. Chief Dryan sent us.”
“What on earth for P”
“You see, sir, the superintendent of Horton Station


A PIECE OF WOOD COMES IN HANDY 79
wanted some help in examining some houses between the
“Fox and Hounds' and the bus terminus. We were on
our way to the station for instructions when we saw a
cove come in here. He acted suspicious-like, gazing up
and down the street, and dodged in. He must have seen
us, but we were a fair distance off. When we found it
was an empty house we thought we'd better investigate,
sir.”
“I see. Go on.”
“We went down the area steps and entered the house by
the door there, same as the other chap had done.”
“Was it closed?”
“Yessir.”
“H'm. Fire away.”
“There was no sign of him at all, sir. We went up the
first flight of stairs to the front door. Then we crept up
the next flight. I picked up a lump of wood in the base-
ment, in case it might be needed, sir xx
“Quite.” A grim interruption from the inspector.
-- And we got up the next flight without seeing the
man. We were crawling »
“On hands and knees?”
“No, sir. I meant tiptoeing along quietl xx
“I see.”
-- Quietly along the passage when we saw part of
the passage was not so pitch-black as the rest of it was.
We saw then that it was a door opening, sir. It must have
been the twilight from the window which enabled us to
see the doorway, sir. Then I saw someone stick out his
head, fishy-like, sir, and—and—”
“The lump of wood came in useful, eh?”
“Well, sir,” said the other, apologetically, “I thought
you were the fellow we saw going in, sir, and when you
poked your head out of the door you nearly frightened
me to death, sir. I lashed out unthinkingly, sir. I'm—
awfully sorry, sir. I . . .”


8o THE MURDER ON THE BUS
Inspector Higgins winced at the recollection. “Go on.
Then what?”
“You let out an awful yell when you dropped, sir, and
a bloke what was further along the passage started run-
ning, sir. We stumbled along in the dark, and were just
in time to see him in the moonlight disappearing over a
wall further down the road. We let him go, sir, and came
back to you. That's all, sir.”
There was silence for a few moments. Constable Gold-
finch's recital had finished upon such a note of lugubrious
interrogation that Inspector Higgins, in spite of his recent
maltreatment, was able to see a funny side to the nar-
rative.
“And now what?” he queried. “You’ve let an ostensible
or potential criminal slip through your fingers; you've
injured—possibly for weeks—a detective-inspector of
Scotland Yard. What's the next item on your pro-
gramme?”
The other made no attempt at reply, but Inspector
Higgins, for his part, did not expect one. His brain was
rapidly clearing, and he was more inclined to take a phil-
osophical view of the incident.
“You say there was only one man who escaped. What
about the other fellow who was upstairs?”
“Upstairs, sir?”
“Other fellow, sir?”
Both Constable Goldfinch and Constable Smart seemed
surprised at the question. Inspector Higgins rose to his
feet with a sigh.
“I only hope, for both your sakes, that he hasn't escaped
whilst we've been holding an inquest here. Now then, you
two. One of you guard the window out of which the
other fellow escaped. The other—I think it had better be
you, Goldfinch—stop in the floor below to prevent any
escape by the back door.” He squared his shoulders. “I’ll
go upstairs and see if this fellow is still there.”


A PIECE OF WOOD COMES IN HANDY 81
“Are you sure you're all right, sir?” queried Constable
Goldfinch. “I’ll go if you like.”
“No. I’d better go. You're much too handy with pieces
of wood, and I should hate to see you in Court for mal-
treating a prisoner.”


CHAPTER X
IN WEIICH A DISCOVERY IS MADE
IN SPECTOR HIGGINS mounted the second flight of
stairs warily. Not so much because he was expecting
attack as that his recent blow had left him somewhat un-
steady on his feet, necessitating care in the ascent. He was
fully convinced in his mind that the man upstairs, who-
ever he was, had long since left the premises. He was a
bit cloudy in his recollections, but he had a vague sus-
picion that the man upstairs and the man who almost
opened the door of the room in which he was hiding were
one and the same. Now he came to reason things out,
there had been a considerable amount of time between
the sound of the footsteps overhead and the sound of
the footsteps coming up the stairs. During that time it
was quite possible that the man upstairs had descended
the stairs without a sound and had then re-ascended them.
But why should he do such a thing as that? There did
not, on the face of it, appear to be any answer.
Inspector Higgins stopped short at an open window,
and from marks in the dust on the sill, plainly visible in
the moonlight, it was obvious that one of the men (if not
both of them) had escaped down a thick drainpipe at the
side of the wall. Higgins was vaguely sceptical as to the
strength of this pipe, considering that the rest of the house
had been condemned, but quickly ascertained that it had
been reinforced by iron bands placed at convenient periods
for footholds. A handy means of escape, and of recent
execution, too. This house was indeed a find! He would
go over it with a tooth-comb in the morning, but for the
present . . .
82


A DISCOVERY IS MADE 83
He came to the top of the stairs and flashed his electric
torch along the passage. Ah! This was the room From
its position it was obviously the one over that in which he
had been hiding. It was in this room that the noise of
someone walking across it had been so plainly audible in
the room below.
The door was shut, and the Inspector walked towards
it. He tried the handle.
“Curse it! Locked.” So there was someone inside! He
exerted a gentle pressure and was surprised to find the
door give a little. There was the sound of a stifled gasp
within the room, instantly suppressed. The inspector
placed his shoulder against the panel of the door and
heaved. The door gave way easily; in fact, too easily for
Higgins, who almost lost his balance, and saved himself
from falling precipitately into the room by a desperate
clutch at the doorhandle.
“Now then, you inside! Come along out!”
There was no reply.
“I’ll give you three seconds to make up your mind.
Then I start shooting through the door. I’ve got a squad
downstairs” (the two constables would have been highly
flattered had they but heard this description!), “so the
game's up.”
Silence.
“Just as you like. One—two—”
“D—d—don't shoot, mister!”
Inspector Higgins was badly startled, for it was a girl's
voice which had at last broken the silence. He opened the
door quickly and entered the room, softly closing the door
behind him. Placing his back to the closed door to prevent
any attempt at escape he flashed his torch round the
TOO111.
Cowering in the far corner of the room was a girl
of about seventeen years of age, whitefaced and shivering,
her whole demeanour denoting fear—not mere fright,
but stark fear. Inspector Higgins was sorry he had startled


84 THE MURDER ON THE BUS
the girl by his futile threat of shooting, for it must have
been nerve-racking enough for her to be alone in this
room at this ungodly hour of the morning. He had a soft
spot in his heart for all children, and this girl was little
more than a child.
“Now then, missy. There's nothing to be afraid of.
What are you doing here?”
“N-n-nothing, sir.”
“H'm. Nothing, eh?” A sudden explanation occurred
to the inspector. Perhaps the kid had no home, and had
come in here for a night's rest. He suggested as much.
“That's right, sir. That's right.”
The prompt reply had been a little too eager to the
detective's sensitive ears.
“That's two lies you've told me already, my dear. And
you’ve only answered two questions. Dear, dear! Now
then. The truth, please!” Sternly.
“I—I'm looking for my T-Tommy, sir.”
“And who's Tommy?”
“My boy”—proudly. Inspector Higgins grinned ap-
provingly in the darkness.
“And did you expect to find him in an empty house?”
The girl stared in his direction, a queer expression
upon her face, and, although she could not see him, the
gentle quality of his voice seemed to give her courage.
“Of course I did. And you know what's happened to
him! You and your gang! Why can't you leave my boy
alone?” Like an angry kitten, with blazing eyes she
stormed for a moment, then once more seemed afraid. She
bit her nether lip as though to prevent a further outburst.
“Me and my gang, eh? That's news indeed! Who do
you take me for?”
The girl did not reply. Already she appeared to regret
what she had said, and the inspector was at a loss as to
how to proceed. A gradual lightening of the blackness, at
the window at her back reminded him that the dawn had


A DISCOVERY IS MADE 85
come, so he suggested that she might come along with
him to get a bite of breakfast.
“Nothing doing.”
“Eh ?”
“Nothing doing. You've got my boy here somewhere,
and—”
“All right, my dear. We'll make a further search, if
you'll be good.”
“You’ll let him go, won't you?”
“I hope so. Now tell me how you came to be hiding
up here.”
The girl thought for a moment, then: “I spose I’d
better tell you. I followed you in.”
“Good Lord!”
“Yes. I shut the door after you. You oughtn't to have
left it open, you know,” naively.
Inspector Higgins smiled. This explains the complete
lack of interest shown by the uniformed constable out-
side upon finding the battered hat.
“Very courageous, I'm sure. But why here?”
“My boy followed a bloke in here last night, and I
ain't seen him since.”
Inspector Higgins started. Last night! A man had been
shot in a bus last night from such a house as this!
“H'm. And you think I'm one of the gang, eh? Why?”
“Well, you asked if there was anyone at home—I
heard you.”
“Gosh!” Higgins smiled as he recollected his facetious
effort earlier in the night.
“You ain't a cop, are you?”
Inspector Higgins turned the beam of his electric torch
so that the girl could see the outline of his features, then
smiled his most disarming smile.
“Now, my dear, tell me honestly. Do I look like one?”
The girl studied his face for a moment, then, with
great seriousness:


86 THE MURDER ON THE BUS
“Yes, you do.”
A burst of laughter from the inspector greeted this
reply. Had the girl but known it, she had shattered a
long-cherished delusion of the inspector that he did not
look like a policeman.
“H'm. What's it matter, anyway? Now let's find that
boy of yours. He's not downstairs, I can tell you that:
and he's not in here. Have you looked any further?”
“No, sir. When that other man followed you in I hid
in here, and I've been here ever since, afraid to move.”
“So your Master Tommy may be upstairs. We'll have a
look.” Inspector Higgins walked to the top of the stairs,
and, leaning over the tremulous banister (at great risk
of their immediate collapse) called out:
“Goldfinch l’’
“Sir,” came the prompt reply from down below.
“Get a cab for me, if you can. I've found a young lady
here, whom I may have to take home.”
“Very good, sir.”
“Now then, missy—what's your name, by the way?”
“Jill.”
“How very nice. Jill what?”
“Jill Crawford.”
Higgins made a mental note of the name, and deter-
mined to make suitable enquiries. He ascended the stairs
cheerfully, the girl at his heels. The stairs were consid-
erably more narrow than the previous flight and indicated
that they led to an attic or garret. At the top of the flight
there was a door—it was locked, and there was no key.
“Do you think I'll bring the house down if I break in
this door?” queried Higgins facetiously, as the girl
reached his side at the top of the stairs.
“I—I hope not. Tommy's in there.”
“Oh!”—quickly. “How do you know?”
“I—I don't really know, but I feel it.”
“H'm.” Higgins, the sceptic, emitted an unchivalrous
grunt. “Stand back, missy.” He balanced himself at the


A DISCOVERY IS MADE 87
top of the stairs, then hurled himself at the door. There
was a rending crash and the door flew open.
“Anything wrong, sir?” A very anxious voice from
the regions below asked the question eagerly.
“It's all right, thank you, Smart.”
Inspector Higgins gazed into the room. It was, as he
had anticipated, an attic. A slanting roof, with a skylight
well beyond the reach, served as walls, and seated upon
a piece of sacking at the junction of the floor and the
roof, his face buried in his hands, was a youth.
“Tommy! Tommy!” Jill Crawford ran across the floor
with outstretched arms.


CHAPTER XI
IN WHICH A YOUNG LADY IS SENT HOME
IN SPECTOR HIGGINS surveyed the attic with pro-
fessional interest. This ramshackle house was, as he
had remarked before, a great find. It needed but the dis-
covery of a dead man on the roof to make the find com-
plete! Higgins was in such a state of bewilderment that
he would not have been surprised were such a discovery
to follow. The only thing against such a possibility was
the fact that the roof was sloping, and, in all probability,
the guttering on which the body might conveniently rest
had long since fallen into decay!
The skylight, through which the first dim light of a
new day was faintly glimmering, had once been glazed,
but there was no longer any glass in the framework. The
attic was bare of furniture, and the sacking upon which
both the boy and the girl were now seated in earnest
conversation had probably at some distant date been used
in the skylight in place of the broken glass.
The pair on the floor seemed completely oblivious to
the inspector's presence, and Higgins, innately courteous,
did not intrude upon their whisperings. His time would
come later!
Eventually, when he considered that such a time had
arrived, he emitted a deprecating cough. The pair started,
and the girl jumped to her feet, whilst the youth slowly
and painfully rose and stood shakily upon his feet at her
side.
“Good morning”—with a friendly smile. “Now you
must tell me all about it.”
The youth looked up, sujy. He was still in his teens,


A YOUNG LADY IS SENT HOME 89
of no great stature, and possibly good-looking—but for
his present scowl.
“A nice dirty trick you played on me—locking me in
like that l”
Inspector Higgins raised his eyebrows quizzically, and
the youth peered in his direction, then crept forward,
staring into the other's face.
“That's right. Make sure it was me before . . .” be-
gan the inspector, smiling, completely off his guard. His
remark was cut short by a vicious blow which the other
aimed at his face. Higgins staggered backwards a step
as he was knocked off his balance, then he dived for the
other's feet, just as he had reached the top stair. A yell
of fright, then a tremendous clatter as the youth fell
down the complete flight, and lay inert at the bottom.
“You blasted fool!” Inspector Higgins ran down the
stairs, whilst the girl screamed.
“You’ve killed him. Oh, you've killed him!”
Constable Smart, in the basement, hearing the pan-
demonium upstairs, decided to add his quota, and blew
his police-whistle with all his might, running up the stairs
and shouting encouragement to his inspector, whom he
imagined to be fighting for his life. Arrived at the top
of the stairs he stopped short, amazed. Inspector Higgins,
upon one knee, was raising from the floor the head of a
youngster, whilst near by a girl stood silently, her fists
clenched, with anxious eyes upon the youth. Higgins,
upon his approach, looked up.
“Ah, Smart. Some water, please.”
“Yessir.” Constable Smart departed upon his errand,
and the inspector turned to the girl.
“Don’t try any hanky-panky business, missy—you'll
only come off second best, and xx
A groan from the young man stopped his warning,
and the inspector set the lad's head more comfortably in
the crook of his arm.
“Well?” he queried, smilingly. “How's tricks? No


90 THE MURDER ON THE BUS
bones broken, I hope.” He ran a professional hand over
the other's anatomy, talking cheerfully meanwhile, and
was feeling the other's left arm when the lad emitted a
cry of pain. “Aha! Arm damaged, eh? H'm. Sprained.
A few days' rest and you'll be as sprightly as ever.”
The sound of footsteps upon the stairs and Constable
Goldfinch put in an appearance.
“I’ve got a taxi, sir.”
“Good. Where's Smart gone to?”
“Getting some water, sir. The Water Board must 'a'
cut off this place years ago, sir.”
“Oh yes. Of course. Telephone for an ambulance, will
you?” Then, indicating the injured youth, “We'll have to
cart this chap to the hospital.”
“I won't go!”
“Hallo! Still alive and kicking, eh? And why won't
you go?”
“Don’t like hospitals,” the youth explained, sullenly.
“I’m all right.” He tried to rise to his feet, but the effort
was a little too much for his injured arm. He sank back
with a suppressed groan. Higgins gazed at him with
some slight compassion. He well knew the horror of the
average poor of hospitals. A ridiculous antipathy, really,
when one considers that the hospitals give the best treat-
ment at the cheapest rates.
“All right. Ring up Primrose 44523 and ask the Doc
to get out of bed again. Don't mind his language. He's
been years learning it!”
“Now then, sonny,” continued the inspector, as Con-
stable Goldfinch descended the stairs, “you owe me an
apology. What was the big idea just now?”
“I thought you locked me in.”
“Well, I didn't. But when were you locked in?”
“The night before last.”
“Good Lord! How did that happen?”
“I followed a bloke in here to see what he was up to-


A YOUNG LADY IS SENT HOME 9I
but someone must 'a' seen me, for I got a cosh at the back
of the head and woke up in the room upstairs.”
“Why didn't you holler?” queried Higgins, dropping
into the other's vernacular.
“Holler? Holler? No one takes any notice of hollering
here. I couldn't reach that winder in the roof or I might
'a' climbed out. But I'll catch the bloke one day”—darkly
and with venom—“an' when I do—I’ll kill him!”
“Steady, my lad. Steady. You can't kill a chap merely
because he gives you—what did you call it? Oh, I know—
a cosh at the back of the head. If you could, you know,”
he added whimsically, “I should be entitled to strangle you
forthwith.”
Constable Smart came running up the stairs with a jug
of water in his hand, and the inspector promptly relieved
him of it, and placed the jug to the boy's lips, watching
him intently meanwhile. The boy sipped slowly at first,
then, catching the inspector's eyes upon him, drank more
deeply, until with a sigh he released the jug, three-parts
empty.
“Thanks, Smart. Return the jug and tell the taxi-fellow
outside that we shan’t be a couple of minutes.” He turned
again to the youngster. “Now then, young man, perhaps
you'll tell me why you are so anxious to do for that other
man.”
“He killed my Dad”—with simple dignity.
Inspector Higgins stared silently at the youth, gauging
the depth of his sincerity, then:
“You’d better tell me all about it, sonny. I'm a 'tec. It's
my job running down murderers and the like—I get paid
to do it, and I have the law behind me. People who run
private vendettas of their own—no matter under what
provocation—eventually get it in the neck. Sometimes
what they get in the neck is a rope. We police don't take
sides, you know.” The boy shuddered.
“I—I can't tell you, sir. My Dad died by his own hand.


92 THE MURDER ON THE BUS
He killed himself, but this other chap drove him to it—of
that I'm sure. I know who it was, and one day I'll get him.”
“H'm. And the day after you get him—I’ll get you. It's
not worth it, sonny, you can take it from me.” Inspector
Higgins became aware of their silent spectator—the girl
—and he turned to her.
“Would you marry a murderer, my dear?”
The girl did not answer, so Higgins turned again to the
youth.
“Well, sonny? What about it?”
“I—I never thought of that, sir.”
“H'm. Well, it's high time you started thinking. Now
then, missy, I'm going to trust you. Here's a quid note.
There's a taxi downstairs. Push off home, but bring me
the change to-morrow morning at Scotland Yard. Ask for
Higgins—they all know me. Run along. I'll look after
this young fellow for you.”
The girl hesitated for a moment, undecided what to do,
then, looking into the inspector's eyes and being apparently
reassured by what she read there, she patted the youth
maternally upon his unkempt hair, and, with a smile, was
gone.
Inspector Higgins walked to the broken window of the
room facing the street and peered down. He saw the girl
enter the taxi, then, in spite of his assurance that he was
going to trust Miss Crawford, made a pencilled note of the
taxi's number as soon as he had deciphered it.
Goldfinch entered the house almost immediately and re-
ported to Higgins.
“Bit o' luck, sir. Dr. Pape had been called to a private
patient near by, so I rang up the house and he should be
here any minute now.”
As if to support his assertion a private car slowed down
on the opposite kerb, turned a complete semicircle in the
roadway, and drew up outside the house. Dr. Pape, the
police surgeon, alighted, gazed with furrowed brow at the


A YOUNG LADY IS SENT HOME 93
apparently empty house, and seemed about to return to
his car when he caught sight of Smart, and the pair entered
the building together. -
“Well, Higgins, here I am,” remarked Dr. Pape
cheerily, as he ascended the last flight of stairs. “The
Sioux Indians call me Wamba-Wamba—which being
interpreted meaneth “The-Eye-Which-Never-Closes'—
and ” He broke off as he surveyed the youth standing
by the inspector, and supported by his arm. “Hallo-allo-
allo! I think we've met before.”
“Doctor Pape!” muttered the youth.
“Right first time.” The police surgeon turned to the
astonished inspector. “Well, Higgins, who's dead?”
“Nobody yet, but this boy wants to run amok with a
hatchet. He's hurt his arm.”
“H'm. And you've hurt your head, seemingly,” re-
sponded the doctor, his professional instinct aroused.
“That's nothing. Look at this kid's arm.”
Tommy had been sent home, his arm bandaged, under
the protection of the two constables, who had definite in-
structions to keep an eye upon him, and to “shadow” his
movements should he disobey Dr. Pape's instructions to
remain in bed for a few days.
“Now then, Doc. I refrained from further questioning
of that boy because I guessed you could tell me a lot about
him, and because your remarks might bear the strain of
investigation, whereas his might not.”
“Thank you for those kind words,” replied the doctor,
with mock dignity. “His name's Thomas Hamper, and
we met at the inquest on his father.”
“Ah.” Inspector Higgins was silent for a few moments,
then :
“Suicide?”
“Yes.”
“H'm. Poor kid”—thinking of the injured youth. “He


94 THE MURDER ON THE BUS
says he knows the man who drove his father to it. What
came out at the inquest?”
“You ought to know, Higgins. You put that new man
on it.”
“Oh! I remember now. Stuck his head in a gas-oven or
something, didn't he?”
“More or less. He died by gas poisoning, anyhow. Un-
sound mind.”
“I’ve got it now. I'll have to glance over Summers'
report when I get back to the Yard. By the way, Doc.
That kid says he's been locked in here since the night be-
fore last—could you tell whether he'd been without food
or drink for, say, thirty hours?”
“Couldn't say, old man. Quite likely. He looked healthy
enough. Don't suppose thirty or even sixty hours would
make much difference to a kid of his stamina. Did he ask
for a drink or anything when you found him?”
“No. But I went for some, and he drank very nearly a
jugful of water.”
“H'm. Difficult to tell. You should have warned me,
and then I might have looked for signs, but—thirty hours!
—practically impossible to tell. Where was he locked in,
by the way?”
“Attic.”
“Any signs?”
“I’m just going up to have another look around.”
“Right. I'll come along and tender some expert advice”
—facetiously.
“That'll be very helpful,” responded Higgins dryly, yet
with a merry twinkle in his eyes.
They mounted the top flight of stairs together, and the
doctor, noting the broken door, remarked:
“Aha! Giving exhibitions of prodigious strength again,
I see.” He gazed round the room. “Why didn't the kid try
to break down the door, I wonder?”
“Because it opens inwards. It's simple to charge down
a door from the outside—”


A YOUNG LADY IS SENT HOME 95
yy
“To you, perhaps, but for myself
“But to pull it open from the inside . . .” Higgins
shrugged his massive shoulders expressively.
“What about the skylight? Too high, I suppose?”
“Yes. If I give you a leg up, will you see—well, what
you can see?”
Inspector Higgins lifted up Doctor Pape, who again
marvelled at his friend's vigour, and the police surgeon
gripped the edge of the framework. There was no need to
open the skylight, for the absence of any glass saved this
trouble.
“Nothing here, Higgins. I can just see the houses op-
posite.”
“It faces the street, then?”—unnecessarily.
“Yes.”
“All right.”
Higgins lowered the doctor, and after one more look
round, they descended the stairs.
“This is where I got my clout at the back of the head.”
“Who did it?”
“Constable Goldfinch, in an excess of zeal.”
Dr. Pape tittered, so Higgins continued, ruefully: “Yes.
I know it's damned funny, but—Good—Lord!”
“Now what?”
“I—wonder!” Inspector Higgins stepped towards the
door, and carefully examined the knob on the outside of
it. He cast his mind back. Yes. The last person to touch
this doorhandle on the outside was the man who had fol-
lowed Jill Crawford into the building, and who had waited
at the bottom of the next flight of stairs for such an un-
conscionable time. That being so, he should have left be-
hind some valuable fingerprints.


CHAPTER XII
IN WEIICH THE YOUNG LADY RETURNS
“WoºD you mind waiting here a few minutes,
Doc, whilst I ring up the Yard?”
“Carry on, Higgins, don't mind me,” responded the
doctor, his voice suggesting his martyrdom to a cause.
Ten minutes later Inspector Higgins returned, having
made arrangements for a photographer to call at the build-
ing and for a guard to be set outside.
“But we'll have to wait until the guard arrives, won't
we, Higgins?”
“No. I’ve.got a uniformed cop outside.”
“Lucky to find one, weren't you.”
“Not exactly—he found me. The fact that I had just
emerged from an apparently empty house seemed to have
escaped his notice, but the fact that I had left a car out-
side unattended and blocking the traffic caused him to make
enquiries as to my name and address. I thought you ran
to a chauffeur, Doc?”
“So I do in the ordinary way, but I drive myself when
I'm called out in the middle of the night, and the chap
picks me up early in the morning—like he did at the garage
yesterday. As a matter of fact I expect he's been to my
patient near by already, but, as I didn't tell them—natu-
rally—whither I was bound, he's probably pushed off home
again. Can I give you a lift?”
“That's kind of you, Doc.”
The two police officials descended the stairs to the base-
Iment.
“Lost your tile, Higgins?”
“Yes”—shortly.


98 THE MURDER ON THE BUS
went to bed, completely tired out by two consecutive nights
without sleep.
The inspector was up and about early the next morning,
completely refreshed after about twenty hours' rest. His
head was still slightly sore when he tried to put on his best
bowler preparatory to leaving his house, and he caused no
little surprise and comment when he turned up at the Yard
an hour later wearing a cloth cap. He lost thereby some
of his prestige as the essence of sartorial refinement!
His investigations had been carried a few steps further
during his absence the previous day. Sergeant Mercier's
list of “doubtful” citizens along the bus route had been
carefully sifted. Most of them had unimpeachable alibis,
whilst one of them, mistaken as to the reason for the en-
quiry, had confessed to some minor depredation during
the night in question. Higgins grinned sympathetically.
Some of the smaller crooks had all the bad luck! His own
enquiry, however, was not helped forward, except in a
negative manner, by the results of these questionings. He
telephoned for Sergeant Mercier, and a few minutes later
that cheery individual put in an appearance.
“This bus murder, Mercier,” said Higgins, as the ser-
geant stood at attention before his desk. “You’ve got
photographs of the deceased, I suppose?”
“Yes, sir. Taken at the mortuary. I've compared it with
photos of the latest missing gentry, but there's nothing
doing. Can't make out where all these missing folk get
to,” he finished up plaintively.
Inspector Higgins looked at him for a moment, then:
“Most of 'em have left the country with other men's wives
or other men's money,” he said cynically. “So our bus
man has not yet been reported missing, eh? H'm. Curious,
that. Chap must live somewhere, and you'd 'a thought
someone would 'a missed him.” He opened, whilst talking,
another plain envelope, which, upon examination, proved
to contain a photograph, much enlarged, of a thumb-print.


THE YOUNG LADY RETURNS 99
Written upon the back were the words: “From outside
doorknob on first floor of 79, Horton Road.”
“Seen this?” queried Higgins, exhibiting to the ser-
geant's gaze the print.
“Yes, sir. Again nothing doing.”
“I see. Thanks.”
Sergeant Mercier bowed gravely and left the inspector's
office. Higgins smiled amusedly as the door closed. Mer-
cier was a bit of an oddity, but a wonderful man at his
job.
Once more Higgins reached for his telephone, and this
time with some trepidation, for he had instructed Con-
stables Goldfinch and Smart to keep an eye on Thomas
Hamper, but had, unfortunately, forgotten to arrange for
their reliefs. Surely, he reflected, they would have the nous
to telephone the Yard for the required help? No. No en-
quiry from either of them. Not yet, anyway.
“Oh. Just a moment, sir.” A pause, whilst Higgins could
hear much muttering at the other end of the line which he
was not intended to hear. It amused him. “Why the devil
didn't you tell me, you poor stiffſ Here have I been telling
old Higgins that they haven’t rung up, whilst all the time
. . . Grrh. You make me sick. Put a sock in it.” The voice
stopped for a moment, then, in a much louder tone, and
with a decidedly more seductive manner, continued:
“Hallo, sir. So sorry to have kept you waiting, but my
colleague here has just informed me that Constable Smart
rang up a few minutes ago. They watched the man Ham-
per go to bed, and then left together. They rang up to give
word that they were resuming their duties now instead of
coming straight to the Yard.”
“They did, eh? Thanks. I only hope they won't be ring-
ing up again in a few minutes.”
His hope, however, was doomed to disappointment, for
three minutes later Constable Goldfinch reported that,
upon resuming his duties outside Thomas Hamper's


IOO THE MURDER ON THE BUS
abode, he had discovered that, during the night, the man
had left for an unknown destination.
Inspector Higgins swore dolefully, whilst Goldfinch was
plainly apologetic. There was a knock at the inspector's
door, and a messenger announced that a lady wished to
see him.
“Show her in, please.”
The inspector, being human, adjusted the set of his
collar and tie, and Miss Jill Crawford was ushered into his
presence. She walked to his desk, solemnly laid a small
heap of silver and coppers thereon, said: “Thank you
very much indeed,” and would have left immediately, had
not Inspector Higgins called her back.
“Yes?” she queried timidly.
“Er—how's your Tommy?”
“I’m just on my way to see him, sir. He got home all
right?”
“Quite all right. When you see him, tell him I’d like to
have a talk with him, will you?”
“Certainly.”
“Thanks very much. Goodbye. The attendant will show
you out.”
He smiled a farewell, and picked up the receiver of his
telephone.
“Hallo. Girl coming out. Jones has her in tow. See she's
followed, please, and report.”
Five minutes later the messenger once again knocked
upon the inspector's door to report that a plain-clothes
man had taken up the girl's trail.
“There's someone else wishes to speak with you, sir,”
he stated, placing a card before the inspector.
HENRY J. Collett,
Inspector.
Gas & Lighting Company,
East District.
“What's he want?”


THE YOUNG LADY RETURNS IOI
“Dunno, sir. He saw Chief Dryan, who referred him
to you.”
“All right. Show him up.”
A small, dapper, middle-aged man was conducted into
the inspector's room by the messenger, who, after stating
his name, immediately retired.
“Take a seat, please, Mr. Collett, and then let me know
in what way I can be of assistance to you.” Higgins waved
to a chair. “I’m Higgins—Detective-Inspector.”
“I—er—don't know whether I’ve done rightly or
wrongly in coming to you, Inspector—” began the man
nervously.
“Set your mind at rest, sir. You can't have done
wrongly, you know.”
The man smiled weakly. “I’m told that you were the
officer in charge of the inquest.” Higgins gazed blankly
at the man, but made no comment. The other continued:
“We get blamed for all sorts of things, Inspector, but in
this case I think we are justified in saying that we have
been completely exonerated.” The inspector's frown of
perplexity deepened, and in his mind he was calling his
Chief Inspector many harsh names in that he had foisted
this visitor upon him. Dryan's idea of a joke, he reflected
Mr. Collett droned on in his toneless voice. “We have
tested the meter and, although I am aware of the time-
worn joke of the man who, in lieu of paying the fees at
his marriage, offered to show the officiating parson how to
alter his gas-meter so that it would not register, this is not
only an improbability, but, with our meters, an impos-
sibility. As I have stated, we have tested the meter, and it
is quite in order.”
“What on earth are you talking about?” queried
Higgins, in an exasperated tone of voice.
“A miscarriage of justice, sir,” said the man pompously.
“Justice to the company which I have the honour to repre-
sent.”
“Oh lor’l” Inspector Higgins groaned inwardly, dou-


IO2 THE MURDER ON THE BUS
bling his mental imprecations against Chief Inspector
Dryan.
“Here, sir, we have a man whom your police-surgeon
publicly stated had died by means of gas-poisoning,
whereas the man could—not—possibly—have—done—
so.” A marked emphasis upon each word. “A penny-in-
the-slot meter, sir, and it had not been tampered with.”
“My dear Mr. Collett,” said Higgins wearily, “what in-
quest are you talking about?”
“That on the body of Henry Hamper xx
“What?” shouted the inspector, roused out of his
apathy at last, but the other continued his sentence, un-
hurriedly:
-- held a short while back.”
“Well?”
“The meter was cleared the day before yesterday.”
“Go on, man. Go on.”
“And it yielded but one penny!”


CHAPTER XIII
IN WIHICH THE INSPECTOR SHOWS HIS PACES
NSPECTOR HIGGINS was staggered. In fact, the
word but vaguely states his perturbation. He was well
aware that it was Dr. Pape who had publicly stated that
Henry Hamper had died as a result of gas-poisoning. Had
it been any other doctor but Dr. Pape, Higgins might
have thought it was a case of mistaken diagnosis, but his
faith in this police-surgeon was unbounded. Dr. Pape
was not the man to jump to a conclusion. If he stated that
the man had died of gas-poisoning, then without a shadow
of a doubt the man had so died, yet—ah!
“And is there not sufficient coal-gas to kill a man in one
pennyworth?”
“It is just about possible, sir, but highly improbable.
The meter was cleared before the man took up his tenancy
—it gets dark early at this time of year—so you must as-
sume that the man never lit his gas for the whole three
weeks of his occupation.”
“H'm. Well, Mr. Collett, I'm much obliged to you for
bringing this matter to our notice. I need hardly assure
you that it will have our most earnest attention and that
we shall do our utmost to—er—remove any possible—er
—slur upon your company, which, if you will allow me
to say so, supplies one of the er—essentials of—er xx
He closed the door after the bowing gas official, and
wiped his brow at the mental strain of his parting effusion.
Then he rang a bell at his desk.
“Send Constable Summers to me at once, and ask Ser-
geant Mercier to let me have Summers' report of the
Hamper inquest held a few days ago.”
IO3


IO4 THE MURDER ON THE BUS
He was re-reading the report of the inquest when Con-
stable Summers answered his summons, and he waved the
man to a chair without looking up from his perusal of the
document.
Having reached the end of the report, Inspector Hig-
gins turned once more to the beginning and started again.
This time he made sundry remarks in the margin of the
report, and underlined certain passages. At last he looked
up, and glanced questioningly at the waiting constable,
who was seated on the very edge of the chair, and looked
and felt most uncomfortable and embarrassed.
“Now then, Summers. Re the Hamper inquest. I’ve
read your report and wish to ask you a few questions
thereon.”
“Oh yes, sir.” Now that he knew the reason for his
summons the constable felt on firmer ground, and some of
his uneasiness vanished.
“To begin with. You state here”—Higgins tappped the
document impressively with the pencil with which he had
made the annotations—“that when you entered the room
it was full of gas.”
“Yessir.”
“You're positive of this, I suppose?”
“Of course, sir. Naturally, I took no chances. I rushed
into the room with a handkerchief over my nose and
mouth—turned off the gas—flung open the window—
rushed out again—then closed the door after me. We
waited five minutes to let the air clear.”
“Very sensible precautions, Constable.”
“They were Dr. Pape's suggestions, sir,” replied the
constable, who was sufficiently honest to refuse unearned
bouquets.
“I see.” Higgins was thoughtfully silent for a moment,
then: “Yet for all you know, considering that from the
time you first entered the room till the time you shut the
door you had your handkerchief over your nose and


THE INSPECTOR SHOWS HIS PACES 105
mouth, there might not have been a particle of gas in the
room.”
Constable Summers stared at the inspector uncompre-
hendingly for a few moments whilst the idea slowly per-
colated through his brain, then, with the deepest reluctance,
he admitted the possibility.
Inspector Higgins reached for the telephone and asked
to be connected with Dr. Pape. There was a few moments'
delay, then he heard the police-surgeon's voice at the other
end of the line.
“Say, Doc, you remember going to that man Hamper's
room—the gas-man, you know—with Summers of the
Yard?” (The constable, hearing himself so described for
the first time, swelled his chest and sat up more firmly in
his chair.) “Yes, that's the fellow. Well. What did you do
when he first entered the room to open the window?” The
answer came back over the wire with the utmost prompti-
tude. “Why! Held me breath, you fool! Can't take
chances at my age. What's up?”
“You didn't notice a smell of gas, did you?”—unfortu-
nately expressed.
“Didn't try. Was there a smell of gas”—heavily sar-
castic. Inspector Higgins rang off without reply, and
turned once more to the constable.
“The door was locked all right. Did you examine the
key?”
“No, sir. But I had to push it into the room before I
could insert the duplicate key which the woman fetched
for me.”
“H'm. Well, Summers; you and I are going into the
whole case again. I don't want you to take any active part,
I merely want you to see how I undertake an investigation.
To study—er—my methods—” He broke off, seized
with a sudden cough as he tried to cover up his rising
colour, for he had come perilously near to blowing his own
trumpet, and felt an awful fool as he realised the import


Ioč THE MURDER ON THE BUS
of his words; whereas his suggestion was kindly meant—
for Summers was a newcomer, and should learn a great
deal which would be of use to him in his profession after-
wards, were he to be present at an investigation conducted
by the inspector with all his vast experience.
“We'll push off at once, Summers. Get your clobber and
meet me at the gates in five minutes.”
“So this is the place, eh?”
Inspector Higgins and Constable Summers were stand-
ing on the kerb outside the brick archway leading to the
house—the cynosure of many pairs of eyes. The only im-
pression upon the inspector's mind was the fact that he
was most decidedly not impressed! The pair passed
through the entrance and slowly mounted the stone steps
leading to the first floor, being halted by the door with
Mrs. Hick's name and occupation scrawled thereon. The
bell was more promptly answered than on the last occa-
sion, and the redoubtable Mrs. Hick opened the door.
“Hullo! You agen!” was her greeting to the constable,
but, finding the inspector's quiet eyes upon her, she shuffled
uneasily and bade them enter.
“I want to see the room of the late Henry Hamper,
please.”
“Very good, sir. I ain't touched it, but 'is son's bin and
looked the place over. You told me not to re-let it, and I
ain't.” The last remark was addressed to Summers, and
he had a feeling of conscious virtue in having given such
instructions.
Inspector Higgins entered the room and glanced around.
“Did the son take anything away?”
“Nuthin' worth takin'—'cept the key. 'E told me 'e
might want ter use the place, an’ as 'is ole man 'ad paid
up the rent—I couldn't 'elp meself.”
“You had another key apparently—the one you let us
in with just now.”


THE INSPECTOR SHOWS HIS PACES Io/
“Yessir. 'E took the one out o' the door, and I took the
one on the floor—the one this gent 'ere pushed out o' the
key'ole.”
“So this is the key by which the late Hamper locked
himself in the room?”
“That's it, sir.”
“H'm.” Inspector Higgins withdrew the key from the
lock and examined it carefully. It was an old-fashioned
key of the peg type, and the very tip of the key was
scratched, and the scratches were new. Higgins nodded
grimly and pursed his lips. He then inserted the key once
more in the lock, but this time from the inside of the room,
and closed the door, remaining outside the door. The end
of the key protruded a fraction of an inch, and the
scratches were plainly visible. From his pocket the in-
spector produced a formidable pocket-knife, with two or
three blades and many gadgets. He fiddled with this for a
moment, then exhibited it to the wondering gaze of Con-
stable Summers. One of its attachments was a fairly
serviceable-looking pair of pliers.
“It may or may not be strong enough,” remarked Hig-
gins, as he gripped with the jaws the protruding end of
the key. It was Three seconds later the door was locked
—from the inside.
“Voilà!” Higgins spread his hands with the air of a
conjurer who has successfully completed a complicated
trick. “And it was like this when you arrived on the scene,
I suppose?”
The constable nodded dumbly.
To open the door with the pliers from the outside was,
however, not quite so simple, for some reason or other:
probably something to do with the balance of the lock.
Higgins cursed himself for giving a practical demonstra-
tion of his idea instead of merely explaining it. Through
this tom-foolery they couldn't open the door. The trouble
was eventually solved by Mrs. Hick, who fetched a very


IOS THE MURDER ON THE BUS
stout pair of pinchers from the regions below, and Hig-
gins was able once more to open the door. He removed
the key and placed it in his pocket.
“Where is his meter for the gas?”
“In the passage outside.”
Inspector Higgins went and examined the meter, but
there were no signs of any tampering.
“Nuthin’ wrong with that, guv'nor. Those things are
unintamperable with,” volunteered the landlady.
Higgins blinked! That was a wonderful word of Mrs.
Hick's Unintamperable. Its meaning was obvious, how-
ever.
“How d'you know?” he queried artlessly.
“’Cos—hem.” The landlady swallowed—and relapsed
into silence.
“You haven't cleaned up his room, I suppose?”
“No, sir. My terms is lodgin's—not attendance,” re-
plied Mrs. Hick promptly—glad the subject had been
changed.
“This ventilator, Summers. Was that covered with
paper—like you said the windows were?”
“No, sir. He'd bunged up all the window cracks, sir. I
expect quite a lot of gas escaped through the ventilator,
sir.”
“And did he—er—bung up the cracks under the door?”
“N–no, sir. I don't think he did.”
“No. I don't suppose he did—that w'd 've been awk-
ward,” muttered the inspector, more to himself than to
the others—reflectively caressing his chin with the thumb
and forefinger of his right hand.
“How about Mr. Hamper's hat and gloves? They were
left here I understand. Didn't his son think they were
worth taking?”
“’E give 'em to me, sir,” said Mrs Hick. “They were
no good to 'im.”
“Why ?”
“Too big”—laconically.


THE INSPECTOR SHOWS HIS PACES Io9
“Too big?” repeated the inspector, unbelievingly. The
landlady bridled.
“D'ye think I pinched 'em?” she shouted. “I’ll go an'
fetch 'em if you like.”
“If you would be so kind.” The landlady marched off
in high dudgeon, and the inspector smiled. He strongly
suspected that she had pinched 'em!
“Er—excuse me, sir, but—er—why do you want to
see them?” ventured the constable diffidently, most anxious
to learn.
“Because she said they were too big.”
“But—er --
“You’ve seen the son, I take it?”
“Of course, sir.”
“And”—Inspector Higgins pulled a sheet of paper
from his pocket—“this is your description of the father,
Henry Hamper. “Height five foot one: chest twenty-nine:
etcetera, etcetera. Small, almost puny'—and the hat and
gloves are too big for the son.”
“Then she has stolen them?”
“I very much fear so.”
Mrs. Hick came panting up the steps, holding a hat in
one hand and the pair of gloves in the other. She thrust
them ungraciously at the inspector.
“’Ere y'are.”
“You’re prepared to swear they belonged to the de-
ceased?”
“I’ll take me Bible oath on it.”
“Are these the ones, Summers?”
“Yes, sir. I think so. Uncommonly like 'em if they're
not.”
“Thanks.”
Inspector Higgins surveyed the lining of the hat and
gloves, then, to the mild horror of the constable, he placed
the hat on his head. It slipped over his ears.
The landlady tittered. “There y'are. I told yer so. Too
big for you.”


IIO THE MURDER ON THE BUS
“Yes,” said Higgins mildly. “So it is!” He looked at
the constable, then: “I’ll keep these, Mrs. Hick.”
“You Won't!”
Inspector Higgins did not vouchsafe any reply.
“Now then, madam. I understand that Hamper on
two occasions came home drunk, and that on the second
occasion he was helped home by a constable and another
man. What was the other man like?”
“Big feller. Bigger'n you”—maliciously.
“It was a Sunday night, I understand. Tell me ex-
actly what happened.”
“’E was brought 'ome 'ere in a keb, and the two on
'em carried 'im upstairs. They put 'im on the bed an'
one of 'em lit the gas—”
“Ah!” An involuntary interruption from the inspector.


II2 THE MURDER ON THE BUS
The murder on the bus and the death of Henry Hamper
seemed to be intertwined. Young Hamper knew some-
thing, but he had given the police the slip, and in any
case they had nothing upon which to apply for a warrant.
They could merely ask him when found to go to a station,
and, if he did not choose to do so, they had no means of
forcing him. If he assented to go, then they would have
to warn him of the possible consequences should he care
to make a statement. These new regulations were the
very devil!
Higgins had already sent an all-stations call for a
young man with his left arm in a sling to be traced. That
was about all he could do.
The inspector began to build a theory on the Hamper
case as far as it had gone. He had proved that the door
of Hamper's room could be locked from the outside whilst
the key remained inside.
Then this mysterious policeman and his pal—the big
man. Higgins had ascertained that no officer had reported
taking home a drunken man on the Sunday night in
question. For one thing, such a proceeding would be with-
out his province. Had he been off duty a constable might
stretch a point and help home a friend in a state of in-
toxication, but otherwise . . . Unless, of course, the man
had been taken to a police station and his big friend had
bailed him out. Then where did the policeman come in?
Had he been offered suitable compensation to give a hand?
Then that last letter of Henry Hamper. It was a Tues-
day morning when the Dead-Letter Office had sent it on
to Higgins by hand. -
Tuesday morning! And Hamper had been brought home
dead-drunk on Sunday night. He must go round and
interview the Post Office people about the times of post-
ing. Had either the policeman or the big man posted the
letter for him? If so, surely they would have noticed that
the envelope was not even addressed!
And Henry Hamper had died by coal-gas poisoning.


HE MEETS AN OLD FRIEND II3
But not at Birkenhead Mansions. That was a sheer im-
possibility! And Mrs. Hick had not known that the old
name for these Mansions was Bulstroade's Buildings.
Was it likely, therefore, that Henry Hamper, a tenant of
but three weeks, should have known the old name? Yet
he had given this as his address in his letter to the police.
Of course, it was probable that Hamper had known the
building in the old days—that might be the explanation.
This letter now. There was neither pen nor ink in that
fatal room, and from the list of the contents of his cloth-
ing there was no mention of a fountain pen. Yet the
letter was written in ink! When and where was it written?
And, more important of all, had Hamper written it? His
son had been unable to state whether or not it was his
father's handwriting.
And the hat and gloves. Too large for the diminutive
Hamper. What about those? Inspector Higgins surveyed
the objects in question which were placed upon his desk
in front of him.
He picked up the hat and felt beneath the band inside.
He withdrew a sheet of newspaper which had been
wrapped inside to reduce its size. Higgins had a momen-
tary shock as he realised that the hat had been too big for
its wearer, but remembered that he had tried it on before
he knew that it had been packed inside. He opened the
sheet of paper. It was the front page of a popular finan-
cial journal. Scarcely the type of paper which would at-
tract the deceased Hamper!
And if the hat and gloves did not belong to Hamper,
to whom did they belong? And why were they found in
that room at Bulstroade's Buildings? The most likely
man to Higgins's way of thinking was the large man who
had helped Hamper home on the Sunday night.
Mrs. Hick had stated that they had been with Hamper
about twenty minutes. Had she noticed whether the large
man had been hatless when he left? The inspector made a
pencilled reminder to find out.


II4 THE MURDER ON THE BUS
There was a knock at his door, and Higgins frowned at
the interruption.
“Who is it?”
“Me, sir—er—Constable Jones, sir,” the man amended
quickly.
“All right. Come in,” replied the inspector, ungra-
ciously. “What d'y' want?”
“I’ve been trailing that girl, sir. She's in a dreadful
state. Looking for someone, I imagine, sir. I've just been
relieved, and I was told to report to you immediately.”
“Thanks.” Higgins picked up the papers he had been
perusing, and the man, accepting this as an intimation of
dismissal, retired from the room.
So Jill Crawford did not know that young Hamper had
bolted, or where he had gone!
Inspector Higgins made a decision. He jumped up from
his seat and, taking his hat and overcoat from a peg on the
wall, he locked his room and left the Yard.
A quarter of an hour later he was ensconced with Mr.
Rayner of the Dead-Letter Office.
The interview was short, but the information gained
was very much to the point. The plain envelope had been
collected from the pillar-box opposite Birkenhead Man-
sions at 7 o'clock on the Monday morning. It must there-
fore have been placed in the box since the previous col-
lection at eleven o'clock on the Sunday evening. Upon the
letters being sorted, the plain envelope had been placed on
one side (“Slung out” was Mr. Rayner's pithy expres-
sion) in the Query box. This box was gone through
about noon on the Monday, and, as the Post Office sort-
ers take a great deal of trouble with letters insufficiently
addressed, and as there seemed to be an epidemic of such
letters that morning, it was not until late in the evening
that the plain envelope had been weeded out and sent to
the Dead-Letter Department. Here it had to take its turn,
and was not opened till the following morning. Immedi-
ately, however, its contents were disclosed, instead of


HE MEETS AN OLD FRIEND II5
opening the enclosure as the Department had every right to
do, Mr. Rayner had sent a special messenger to Scot-
land Yard with the enclosure.
“Which was very kind of you, sir,” said the inspector,
and rising from his chair, he bade Mr. Rayner “Good
day.”
Two things now stood out about that letter. The first:
Henry Hamper was so drunk on Sunday evening that he
had to be brought home. Yet, without pen or ink, he had
written the letter and posted it before seven the following
morning. (The inspector, again from his own “vast ex-
perience,” had to admit that the “morning after” was not
conducive to letter-writing; neither did one feel inclined
to get up during the night in order to post a letter. As a
matter of fact, if one actually woke before seven it was
in the nature of a miracle. Why, on one occasion, after a
more than usually hectic committee meeting when a forth-
coming concert in aid of the Police Orphanage was ar-
ranged, he well remembered that . . . He smiled rem-
iniscently. Gosh! He was bad. . . . Higgins puffed him
self together with a jerk!)
The other thing which stood out in connection with the
letter was that, unless it had been posted for Henry Ham-
per by one of his helpers on the Sunday night, it had been
posted by some person who, to add verisimilitude to the
suggestion that Hamper had posted it himself, had gone
to the trouble of posting it in the letter-box which Hamper
would most assuredly have used. A bit involved perhaps,
but it expressed the inspector's reasoning. *
Supposing . . . Henry Hamper had died by gas-
poisoning somewhere else, not necessarily murder, and
supposing . . . two of his friends, one a large man and
the other in policeman's uniform, but not necessarily a
member of the Police Force (Higgins was always loyal
even in his thoughts), took the dead Hamper by cab to
his room, and, having lit the gas, arranged the room to


II6 THE MURDER ON THE BUS
look as if suicide were contemplated, turned out the gas,
then turned it on without lighting it . . . and supposing
they had then discovered that they had left behind Ham-
per's hat, and the large man had been compelled to leave
his own in the room . . . Supposing all this—why send
the letter?
What purpose did the letter serve? It merely helped to
"confirm the suicide; which, being so, tended to prove that
it was not suicide. And if it wasn't suicide then it was
murder.
What did they gain by placing the letter in a plain
envelope before posting it? Delay—that was what! And
why delay? Necessary for a getaway. And why post the
letter at all?
Sending the letter was a bad mistake! They should
have taken their chance that Hamper was not discovered.
“Thomas Hamper must be found. See to it!” Inspector
Higgins issued these instructions well knowing that they
were more easily said than done. To begin with, there
were no photographs of the young man available. The
interest taken by the Press in the inquest on his father
was surprisingly negative. The Yard's file of newspaper
cuttings on the case contained but two references. One, a
dozen lines in the local paper, and the other three lines un-
der the heading “News from Near and Far,” giving the
verdict. The reason was not far to seek, for suicide by
means of gas was becoming (to the newspaper world)
prosaic copy. The bus murder was more in their line. Thus
no photographs of young Hamper had been taken by en-
terprising reporters—and a visit to his lodgings failed to
produce any, for what young man nowadays keeps his
own photograph?
Still, young Thomas Hamper knew something. He
stated, though whether he had spoken the truth Inspector
Higgins was not too sure, that he had followed a “bloke”
into that condemned house at Horton. He had further


HE MEETS AN OLD FRIEND 117
stated that that “bloke” was responsible for the death of
his father. The man must be an old associate of Henry
Hamper. And Henry Hamper had been a crook. It was
reasonably certain therefore that the man (if any) whom
young Hamper had followed had also been a crook.
Were there any known crooks of exceptional size?
Dozens. “Beefy" Edwards—“Lofty” Baynard—“Tiny”.
Campbell . . . “Any amount of 'em,” reflected Higgins.
A gruesome photograph had been circulated to the po-
lice stations all over the country—the body of the un-
known man found shot on top of the bus. Name and
address required.
But one uninspiring reply was received, yet the in-
spector felt obliged to investigate. The superintendent of
a county station reported that a village constable, making
his weekly call at the station, had seemed to recognise the
photograph.
Higgins was not very hopeful. The constable, when
interviewed, seemed even more uncertain than he had been
when he drew his superintendent's attention to the matter.
“The photograph looked very like one of the gents up at
the big house"—that was all.
The inspector was conducted by the constable to the
lodge gates of the big house, and there, to the man's in-
tense relief (for he had felt woefully uncomfortable in
the presence of such a high official), he dismissed his
guide.
He passed through the lodge gates and walked up the
gravelled path. The house itself was set well back from
the road, and was in a fine state of repair. Obviously
wealthy owners. The gardens were well tended, and behind
the house could be seen many rows of greenhouses. The
inspector walked up the five steps leading to the front
door, then rang the bell.
There was a sound of shuffling footsteps, then the door
was opened, and framed in the doorway was a small,
wizened, middle-aged man in formal evening dress, a size


II8 THE MURDER ON THE BUS
too large for him. He stared at the inspector for a moment,
then:
“Lumme. 'Iggins!”
The inspector peered closely at the man, who looked as
if he would willingly have bitten off his tongue for his
needless ejaculation. A moment later and the recognition
was mutual. Higgins smiled. “Blessed if it isn't Soapy!
Well, I never did! Fancy meeting you here!” Inspector
Higgins advanced with outstretched hand, whilst the man
backed furtively away.


CHAPTER XV
IN WEIICH HE MEETS ANOTHER OLD FRIEND
THE man glanced stealthily back into the gloom of the
spacious hall, his manner indicative of overwhelming
fear. He licked his lips, then turned to the inspector.
“Clear aht ov 'ere, Mr. 'Iggins! Clear aht! You've al-
lers played the w'ite man ter me—you've never tried ter
fasten on terme cribs I never cracked. Clear aht, sir! Clear
aht!”
“I thought you knew me better than that, Soapy!” the
inspector smilingly remarked.
“Lumme, Mr. 'Iggins. Don't sye I never warned yer
—don't sye I done yer dirt!”
Inspector Higgins frowned uneasily. The man's fear
was so genuine, his manner so agitated, that the inspector
had a creepy feeling down his spine. He shuddered in-
voluntarily, then pulled himself together.
“I would like to speak to Mr. Raymond, Soapy.”
“Don’t do it, Mr. 'Iggins! Don't do it!” the man urged.
“I—”
“Show the inspector into the library, Soapy.”
The voice was cold and toneless, yet with an under-
current of evil. Soapy shivered, then placed a grubby fore-
finger in his mouth, to stay the chattering of his teeth.
“Y—y—yessir.”
“Then go to your room. I'll attend to you later. You
talk too much.”
Inspector Higgins followed the thoroughly frightened
Soapy down the passage and into the library. It was
empty, but a bright fire was burning at the other end of the
room, and instinctively the inspector made for its com-
forting warmth. Soapy, having conducted Inspector Hig-
II9


I2O THE MURDER ON THE BUS
gins into the room, retired without another word. The
cold, calculating voice seemed to have dried up his powers
of speech.
Higgins stared round the room. The four walls were
lined with books, intersected with occasional etchings. He
felt uncomfortable, not only on Soapy's behalf, but for
his own. There was something mysterious in the very
atmosphere of this place.
He warmed his hands in front of the fire, awaiting the
owner of the voice—its quiet menace still found an echo
in his brain. Five minutes passed and nothing happened.
Inspector Higgins began to fret at the delay. The dis-
courtesy of it was probably intentional—the thought
curbed his impatience. He seated himself in an easy chair
and pulled out his pipe and tobacco. If the owner of this
place chose to ignore his visit, then he would have to put
up with any breach of etiquette on the inspector's part.
Higgins had filled his pipe, and was just on the point of
lighting it, when a soft, gentle and cultured voice spoke
immediately behind him.
“That is right, Inspector. Make yourself at home.”
Higgins swung round in his chair. Standing immedi-
ately behind him, exuding goodwill with a benign smile
and rubbing his hands together, was the biggest man the
inspector had ever seen.
Higgins was startled, not so much at the man's presence,
but that he had not heard the man enter the room. That
such a huge man could move so quietly seemed uncanny.
Higgins jumped to his feet.
“Good afternoon. I called to see Mr. Raymond. My
card, apparently, is not needed.”
“No, Inspector. We—er—have heard of you, although,
speaking for myself, I have never to my knowledge seen
you before.” The big fellow stared down at Higgins from
his superior height. “Mr. Raymond is no longer with
us.”
“Dead?”


HE MEETS ANOTHER OLD FRIEND I2I
“I'm afraid I express myself rather badly. I meant to
convey that Mr. Raymond—er—no longer lives here.”
“I thought I heard him speak in the hall just now.”
“That? No. That was certainly not Mr. Raymond. Oh,
dear me, no.” He laughed—an unpleasant sound. “That
was Mr.—but his name does not matter. He is upstairs
now—er attending to Mr. Soapy, our estimable butler.
You mustn't place too much reliance on our Mr. Soapy's
chatter, you know. He doesn't always tell the truth. In fact,
not to put too fine a point upon it, Inspector, our Mr.
Soapy is not—er—unfamiliar with the inside of a gaol.”
“I know that well enough. I’ve put him in clink twice
myself.”
“Dear me! Fancy that now!”
A silence, during which the inspector had a vaguely
uneasy feeling that there was someone other than the
large man and himself in the room. Mechanically he lit
his pipe, and, blowing the first mouthful of smoke up-
wards, he nonchalantly subjected the ceiling to a close
scrutiny. Nothing doing. He stooped over the fireplace and
tapped the bowl of his pipe on one of the bars. No one on
the left hand side of the room. He turned round quickly,
ostensibly to adjust the cushion on his easy chair—a
flutter of a curtain hanging near the door caught his eye—
then he reseated himself comfortably.
“Yes,” he answered the other's unspoken query. “That's
why I called—to warn you of Soapy; but as you are al-
ready aware of his past delinquencies, well—” He shrugged
his shoulders, stood up, and walked swiftly across the room
towards the curtains.
“Stop p'
A masked man stepped into the room, a revolver in
his right hand, his left clutching the curtain. “Stick 'em
up !”
Inspector Higgins slowly obeyed, but was surprised to
see, out of the corner of his eye, that the big fellow was
also reaching upwards. Then he guessed at the truth. The


I22 THE MURDER ON THE BUS
big man's compliance with the curt order was merely a
blind. Of course, the pair were in cahoots, but the big
man's play-acting cut no ice. He was wrong, however,
for:
“That's right, Sanderson. I meant the two of you.
Stick 'em up an’ keep 'em up.”
There was something familiar about the masked figure,
and Higgins, whilst glancing warily about him for some
means of ending this intolerable position, was also trying
to place the newcomer. Suddenly he found the answer, the
voice had betrayed its owner. The man was young Thomas
Hamper, for whom the whole Police Force was search-
ing. So he is mixed up with these people, he reflected.
He glanced at the youngster's left arm, and could just
see the white bandage at the wrist. Should he keep the
knowledge to himself, or should he let the pair see that in
spite of the mask he had identified the intruder? In any
case he was at a bad disadvantage. He was at the wrong
end of the gun.
There was a coloured rope attached to the thick cur-
tains, and this the young man disengaged awkwardly
with his injured arm.
“Here you,” he ordered, nodding at Higgins, “take
this.” The inspector perforce had to obey. “Now you,” in-
dicating the other, “take a walk to that chair and sit down.”
There was a murderous gleam in Sanderson's eyes as
he retreated. He too was under the impression that the
other two were acting in conjunction, and could not under-
stand these new police methods.
“Now tie him up.”
Inspector Higgins did as he was bidden, cheerfully,
albeit wonderingly. What young Hamper thought he was
up to was not exactly clear, but, with the big man securely
trussed, Higgins did not feel that young Hamper was an
insuperable proposition. With infinite care he tied the
man's arms to the back of the chair, then he roped the
man's legs securely. Sanderson's boots made him shudder.


I24 THE MURDER ON THE BUS
“”T'ain't no use, sir. 'T'ain't loaded.”
“Well! You've gotta nerve, I must say!” commented
Higgins admiringly.
Round his mask the lad's face was diffused with col-
our at the compliment, and the schoolboy in him (not so
very distant in point of years) rose to the surface, and
he pointed to the discomfited Sanderson.
“That's more than he has, sir.”
It was very true. The man's face was pale, almost hag-
gard, and beads of sweat stood out upon his forehead.
He was afraid.
“If the door's locked on the outside, we'd better bar-
ricade it upon the inside. We can't escape that way—that's
fairly obvious.” Higgins looked round the room for a
suitable fortification, and his eyes fell upon the huge San-
derson. In spite of their potential danger, he smiled hap-
pily as a thought struck him. “Here, Tommy. Gimme a
hand.” Young Hamper, his naturally quick wits sharpened
by his street trading, immediately saw the possibility. To-
gether the strangely assorted pair dragged the mutely pro-
testing Sanderson to the door, and planted him firmly in
his chair against the panel. Nearly two hundredweight of
solid humanity—an effective barrier!
“Now then, Tommy. How did you get in?”
The boy leaned over and whispered: “Soapy let me
in the back door. He thinks I've gone.”
“H'm. That's awkward.”
There was a knock at the door, and again the inspector
heard that metallic voice.
“Well, Sanderson. Is the dear inspector—er—non com-
pos—I mean hors de combat?” A pause. “So, my dear
Sanderson, you have failed, eh?” A fierce menace in the
words. The bound man's face turned a sickly grey, and
the inspector felt a moment of compassion. Then whis-
pered instructions outside the door, and the sounds of run-
ning feet. Higgins tried a bluff.
“Hi! You! There's a posse of police round the house!”


HE MEETS ANOTHER OLD FRIEND 125
A mirthful laugh. “Yes. I saw him go.”
“So he got away all right, eh? Thanks very much. He
should be back by now—with about thirty others.” Hig-
gins listened intently in an effort to ascertain whether or
not his shot had gone home, then: “They are merely await-
ing my signal.”
“Then why not signal, my dear Inspector?”
So that was that!
A second later a shot rang out. Simultaneously a round
hole, splinted at the edges, appeared in the upper panel
of the door, and a bullet whistled past the inspector and
buried itself in the opposite wall. The hole in the panel
was about two inches above Sanderson's head, and with
protruding eyes the wretched man endeavoured to shrink
himself into the chair.
Inspector Higgins crept to the window and peered out.
It was dusk, and would probably be dark in less than an
hour. Tommy and he must hold the fort until a merciful
darkness had fallen upon the house, then try to escape by
way of the window. Probably the sinister “voice” would
have the same inspiration. In fact it was pretty certain
that he would protect the window.
What on earth did he expect to gain even though he
killed or captured the inspector? As soon as he was re-
ported missing enquiries must be made at this house.
Did the man expect to be able to bluff the police when
enquiries were made? What would happen? Dryan, or
some other officer, would make enquiries as to where
Higgins had last been seen. The superintendent of the
county station would refer him to the village constable,
who in turn would lead him to the lodge gates. And then
what? Would Dryan in his turn be killed or kidnapped?
It was too foolish. The thing couldn't go on forever.
There must be some reason. They had referred to Hig-
gins as “Inspector” before he had presented his card—in
fact he had not presented a card at all. Therefore they
knew him. Soapy had known him, of course, so there was


HE MEETS ANOTHER OLD FRIEND 127
ing darkness. “We must have more effective weapons,
though. Ah, the fire-irons. Those two pokers look pretty
useful. We'd better rake out what's left of the fire. It
gives a little too much light. Come along.”
The two pokers were very substantial, and—so was the
chimney. The inspector gazed upwards speculatively, then,
turning, beamed on his co-prisoner.


CHAPTER XVI
IN WIHICH TWO MEN GET VERY DIRTY
66 HIS, my boy, is a bit of all right.”
The chimney was old-fashioned, and a worthy
monument of past ages. An inglenook of another genera-
tion. Wide at the base, but tapering upwards. What, how-
ever, was more to the point was a series of iron staples,
rusted and possibly insecure, very black and sooty, yet
leading upwards. What a tale these pieces of iron might
tell of escapes in the past; and the inspector sincerely
hoped that they might add to their repertoire in the near
future. At any rate, it was worth trying. He stepped
within the chimney, and, heedless of the soot, grasped the
first staple. Gosh! It was damned hot!
He pulled off his overcoat, then decided to have a com-
plete look round before trusting himself to the chimney.
By that time it should have cooled off somewhat. He
walked to the window and peeped cautiously out. He was
surprised to find himself on the first floor, until he re-
membered the five steps leading up to the front door.
The ground floor must be in the nature of a semi-
basement. The library was sufficiently far above the
ground to be protected from a sudden rush from the out-
side. Suddenly Inspector Higgins became conscious of
stealthy footsteps on the gravelled path below; and two men
(one of whom was an unwilling Soapy) carrying a ladder
between them. Gosh! What a bit of luck he had decided
on this last look round. How to repel the attack, with the
others armed? And how many were there? And was
Soapy's assistant with the ladder the owner of that ob-
noxious voice?
128


I30 THE MURDER ON THE BUS
of warning the chandelier hanging from the ceiling, and
holding a pair of electric globes, sprang into light.
“Duck, Tommy, duck!” A fusillade of shots rang out
as the pair threw themselves to the floor.
The departure of Soapy and the other was now ex-
plained. They were going to turn on the lights of the
library from a main switch. In this all-revealing light
neither of the prisoners of the room could prevent an
entry through the window were another ladder procured.
“This’ll never do, Tommy,” said Higgins, in a matter-
of-fact tone of voice, as he realised that the youngster
was wilting under the strain. To their assailants outside
it must have been apparent by this time that the inspector
was unarmed, and also that the inspector was not the
only stranger in the room. Tommy's presence must have
given them further food for thought. Higgins wondered
how long the battle could go on without the curiosity of
the village being aroused. His eye fell upon the coalscuttle,
and it seemed as though some of his difficulties might be
solved. He picked up a sizeable piece of coal and handed
it to Hamper, taking a similar piece himself. Then he
pointed to the electric globes, and winked cheerfully.
They hurled together. Tommy's was a bull's-eye, but
the inspector's was woefully at sea. There was a “plop”
and the tinkle of falling glass. One of the electric globes
was out of action. Three minutes later the room was in
darkness.
“Good shooting, Tommy!”
“I used to play cover-point at school.”
“Ah. That accounts for it.” Inspector Higgins was
pleased at the boy's remark. It showed that he was bearing
up much better. “Now gimme a hand with this ladder. Try
and push it up the chimney.”
Unfortunately it would not go. The ladder was too
long and the angle too acute.
“Never mind, Tommy. We must chance it.”


132 THE MURDER ON THE BUS
Tommy below. Nearly at the top now. Only another seven
feet. . . .
Again Inspector Higgins felt round the wall. Yes, there
was no doubt about it! There were no more staples. And
still seven feet to go. Well, there was nothing for it but
to travel mountaineering fashion, by bracing the back
against one wall and the feet against the opposite wall,
and squirming upwards. Perfectly simple. Oh, yes! Per-
fectly simple—I don't think! Too damned dark! And
supposing the chimney widened just a trifle as one were
squirming upwards? A slip—and the pair of them would
be precipitated on to the dead ashes of the fire below, pro-
vided they didn't impale themselves on one of the broken
staples going down. And Tommy's legs were probably
too short to “walk” up the chimney.
A sudden gust of wind and a cloud of smoke belched
down the shaft. Higgins shut his eyes and gripped the
staple. Tommy coughed and spluttered just beneath him,
but hung on manfully. The shaft slowly cleared of smoke.
Then Higgins discovered that just above him was the
inlet of another chimney where it joined the main shaft,
and it was from this that the smoke was pouring up-
wards. This, too, had to be passed—and quickly, too.
The air was foul enough without the addition of smoke.
Inspector Higgins tried to wriggle upwards, but found
that the heat and smoke from the other shaft were too
much. He eased himself down again to the comparative
security of the staple. If he could but stand upon that
last staple he could almost reach the top.
“Buck up, guv'nor. Buck up!” An agonised whisper
from the boy underneath.
“Better go back again, sonny,” began the inspector
kindly, but stopped as the sound of splintering wood
reached their ears from the library. A moment later there
was a rush of feet and a cry as the discovery that the two
were missing was made. Further scurrying, then that
cold, menacing voice.


TWO MEN GET VERY DIRTY I33
“The chimney. That's where they are.” A moment's
silence, then the sound of a shot reverberated deafeningly
up the shaft, and the chimney was filled with particles of
soot dislodged by the percussion. Higgins mentally blessed
that fortuitous change in the angle of the chimney.
“Ah!”—again that hideous voice. “I have an inspira-
tion. Yes, it is an inspiration. We will—er—relight the
fire.”
“Gawd!” Tommy's voice shook.
“Yes. Relight the fire. And, I think, a little petrol is
indicated. Soapy, fetch a can from the garage, and some
paper and wood. No, wait a moment. We'll take a shovel
each and transfer the fire from the dining-room. You,
Sanderson, stand here and shoot 'em if they come down.
I suppose you feel well enough to do that?”—a wealth
of sarcasm. “And don't make any more mistakes”—
threateningly.
Finis. . . . And that poor kid below. . . . And Jill
Crawford waiting hopefully for his return. . . . A stu-
pendous effort was called for, that stifling inlet of the
other chimney must be passed. Higgins pulled himself
upwards for a desperate attempt, then gasped with aston-
ishment. The heat and smoke from that other chimney
had subsided and the place was now humanly bearable.
The explanation flashed through his brain. This must
be the outlet from the dining-room, from which even
at this moment the fire was being transferred to the
library. There was not a moment to lose.
“Tommy, Tommy! I'm going to hang on to one staple
and you've got to try and pass me. Make as much noise
as you like—Sanderson 'll think we're trying to clamber
down. But buck up!” His voice was intense in its urgency.
A nerve-racking minute.
Inspector Higgins hung on to the top staple and
stretched his legs across the chimney. Tommy Hamper
clambered up the staples below as quickly as the impene-
trable darkness would allow.


TWO MEN GET VERY DIRTY I35
and with a magnificent effort hurled himself upwards,
and breathed in the cool air in mighty gulps. There was a
subdued roar down the chimney. He flung himself clear.
Then a sheet of flame shot upwards.


CHAPTER XVII
IN WEIICH THERE IS SOME LOCAL RIVALRY
IN SPECTOR HIGGINS subsided weakly on the angle
of the sloping roof, and would possibly have fallen but
for the helping hand of Thomas Hamper. The sheet of
flame illuminated their precarious position.
After the stifling atmosphere of the chimney the air
of the roof-top was chilling.
The sheet of flame subsided as quickly as it had arisen.
The petrol had burnt itself out in a flash. Would the
“voice” make the same mistake again? Higgins sincerely
hoped so, for should he do so, then, without a doubt, the
whole countryside would be aroused. Another sheet of
flame as the last, and the fire brigade must inevitably be
summoned by some well-meaning villager.
Although the flash had illuminated the roof and a good
deal of the surrounding countryside, the darkness follow-
ing was even more intense to the eyes of the fugitives.
It took quite three minutes for their sight to adjust itself.
Inspector Higgins surveyed the outlook gloomily.
“I reckon we're a damn sight worse off than we were
in the library,” he remarked dejectedly.
“Lumme, guv'nor. You don't half cheer anyone up,”
was the lugubrious response, which had the immediate
result, possibly as the boy intended, of a subdued chortle
from the inspector.
The chimney was in the centre of the roof, which
sloped downwards on either side. It was level for a
few feet on both of the other sides of the rectangle, but
in due course these declined to the ends. At each end,
in the centre of the walls, ºsmall chimney-stack rose a
t


SOME LOCAL RIVALRY 137
few inches above the gutters. A lead gutter ran round
the entire edge of the roof, and apparently there was a
drainpipe at each of the four corners. Inspector Higgins
and the youth sat astraddle the angle of the level portion
of the roof where the two longer sides met, and took
stock of their surroundings.
“And—er—now to get down.”
“Yes, sir. Bit of a proposition, ain't it?”
“An' it's damned cold and damned dark. That doesn't
help much.”
To add to their troubles it started to rain. They turned
up the collars of their jackets and shivered, sheltering
as best they could in the lee of the square chimney-stack.
The rain did not last long, but the roof was wet and
slippery. Then the climax—it began to freeze. A dense
volume of smoke poured from the chimney—the petrol
effort had apparently ignited such of the soot as the two
fugitives had failed to dislodge. Thus, whilst the rain
near the stack was quickly dried, that a few feet away
began to freeze.
“Come along, Tommy. I'm going to the end of this
straight piece to see what our chances are at the end.
You'd better follow. Ease yourself along the angle as if
you were playing leap-frog on an elephant's back.”
Arrived at the horizontal edge of the roof, the short
chimney-stack in the middle of the wall at the end of the
slope could be more plainly discerned. Inspector Higgins
turned on his stomach and eased himself gently down the
slope until his arms were at full stretch, his hands gripping
the top tile.
“How far are my feet from the chimney, Tommy?”
he gasped.
“About ten feet.”
“Well, grip my hands and let me down a bit further.”
Tommy did as he was bidden, but the inspector's
weight was too much for him. Their hands slowly slipped
—the newly-formed ice did the rest. Higgins skidded


138 THE MURDER ON THE BUS
down the remainder of the slope, his left foot hit the
chimney-stack with a smack, his fingernails fought des-
perately for a hold, his body slewed to the right, and
the next moment he was hanging by his fingers to the
edge of the lead guttering, some four feet from the
chimney-stack.
Desperately he moved, an inch at a time, along the
gutter, with a silent prayer that it would hold his weight,
then, utilising his great strength, he pulled himself up-
wards until his legs embraced the chimney-stack. The
rest was comparatively easy and a moment later he was
sitting uncomfortably with his back against the chimney,
passing a weary hand across his brow.
“Much more o' this, Tommy, and I'll chuck me hand
in 1”
Young Hamper did not hear. He was sitting on the
angle of the roof, his face buried in his hands—shudder-
1ng.
Inspector Higgins surveyed his surroundings from his
new position. Yes! He had been quite right in his first
surmise—a drainpipe did run from the roof groundwards
at the corners of the house. But how to get down? He
must walk along the gutter—if walk was the word. With
one hand on the sloping roof he should be able to manage
it. The gutter must hold if it could bear the terrific strain
to which it had just been subjected.
His progress to the end of the roof was perfectly
simple, and was accomplished in a few seconds. The drain-
pipe looked pretty substantial. He firmly believed he could
descend to the ground by this method—but Tommy?
What of Tommy? The boy was still as he had been when
the inspector had glanced in his direction, save that his
eyes were no longer shielded by his hands. To escape by
the drainpipe would be beyond his powers. His nerve
would not stand it.
“Tommy!”
The youngster looked up.


SOME LOCAL RIVALRY I39
“I’m going for help-I shan't be long. You'll have
to stay up there. Keep smiling.”
He lowered himself over the edge of the gutter, then
tested the drainpipe. It was firmly attached to the wall
by means of staples, placed conveniently to hand every
ten feet or so. Higgins could have wished for them to be
at more frequent intervals, but by this time he was
thankful for small mercies.
Two-thirds of the way down, for no apparent reason,
the drainpipe ceased. After a minute of effectual groping
with his feet, Inspector Higgins ventured a downward
glance. It was too dark to see a great deal, save that the
ground seemed to be about eighteen feet below the end of
the pipe. He made a rough mental calculation. If he were
to grip the extreme end of the pipe with his hands, his
feet would then be about ten feet from the ground. At
the worst he would get a broken leg—at the best a nasty
jar. But needs must . . .
Inspector Higgins lowered himself carefully hand over
hand until at last he was hanging at the very end of the
drainpipe. A timid moon peeped out from behind the
edge of the clouds, so, taking advantage of the luminant
thus offered, he glanced downwards.
“You know, my dear Inspector, you ought to have
been a cat-burglar.”
Standing below him, idly twirling a revolver on the
index finger of his right hand, was the mighty Sanderson.
Gone from his features was the sickly dread of an hour
ago—a cynical triumphant smile in its place. Playfully
the man directed at Higgins the beam of an electric torch!
Holy—hell! . . . But this was the last strawl
x 23.
“Oi wish Oi'd never said nuthin'.
The village constable thus spoke, plaintively, to his
wife. Bitterly he regretted that, in a moment of exu-
berance, he had hinted that the photograph on the notice-
board at the County Police Station looked uncommonly


I4O THE MURDER ON THE BUS
like one of the gentlemen at the big house in his village.
It was just a casual remark, not intended for official recog-
nition, yet the superintendent who happened to be passing
had immediately seized upon it and had harried him for
particulars.
Osbert Gander was happy in the placid existence of
the village constable. Anything outside the official routine
worried him, and to think that, on this occasion, it had
been, brought about by his own unguarded statement
was particularly galling.
Of course, the photograph was undoubtedly like Mr.
Raymond of the big house—in fact Osbert could almost
have sworn that it was him: yet . . . Dang it all! He
didn't want any trouble with the others there! That
Mr. Sanderson was a nice enough chap, and the little
butler-fellow always stood his round at the Humming
Top.
Yes. His wish that he had refrained from speaking
was very sincere.
That awful walk with the Lunnon inspector up to the
lodge gates had been very nerve-racking. For the life
of him he couldn't think what to say. The inspector
seemed a decent enough sort of fellow, but . . .
“Never moind, Ossy. It may mean promotion.”
“Or the sack”—lugubriously.
A silence fell upon the the pair. Constable Osbert Gander
had just returned from escorting Inspector Higgins to the
lodge gates of the big house, and he was feeling somewhat
OVerCOITle.
“’E may call 'ere on 'is way baack.”
It was now Mrs. Gander's turn to be perturbed. Lawks!
The house wasn't fit for an inspector from London—
the curtains were not due to be changed till next Saturday,
and Osbert had been gardening the day before and had
trampled all over the house in his dirty boots; and all they
had to eat was half a rabbit-pie, left over from yesterday;
and . . .
*


SOME LOCAL RIVALRY I4I
“You poached the rabbit, Ossy”—accusingly and in
great distress.
“Lawks! So Oi did. D'ye reckon 'e'd find out?”
“Oi –Oi 'opes not. Go an’ see if 'e's comin'.”
Police-constable Osbert Gander placed on his garden-
ing cap and strutted down the village street to the corner
which afforded a view of the road leading to the big
house. Regulation trousers, official tunic unbuttoned at the
neck, and a cap—any superintendent seeing him at this
moment must surely have fainted from the shock! He
cast a wistful eye through the open door of the Humming
Top, licked his lips, and passed on.
At the corner he stopped. The road was clear of pedes-
trians and vehicles. Ardently he hoped that the inspector
would not pay a visit to his humble abode before setting
out for the town.
No—not a sign, thank goodness. He was just turning
away with a sigh of thankfulness when a vivid sheet of
flame shot heavenwards from the direction of the big
house.
“By Goles! . . . Cripes!” He stared for one brief
moment, then pelted back to the village. He might be
bucolic and sleepy in his general outlook on life, but
here was something that he understood—something which
required immediate action. He reached his house and
then with great gusto he tolled a bell attached to the
wall, which served as a signal for the turning out of the
village volunteer fire brigade. Immediately all in the
village was bustle—not necessarily confusion—and a con-
certed rush was made for the barn in which the primitive
fire-fighting apparatus was housed. The constable had
his stereotyped duties governing such an emergency. He
telephoned from the official instrument in his sitting-room
(dusty from long disuse and from Mrs. Gander's homely
mistrust and aversion for such contraptions) to the fire
brigade in the town two miles away, then he dashed to the
barn.


I42 THE MURDER ON THE BUS
The “engine” consisted of a hand-cart upon which
was fixed a serviceable hand-pump and a length of canvas
hose. The “brigade"—cowhands and tenant-farmers
mostly—set off at a jog-trot for the big house, propelling
the engine, and followed by an eager crowd of non-
members. A village fire never lacked willing helpers.
The town fire-brigade boasted a motor engine, and
there was much rivalry between the professionals and the
amateurs. In fact, it was a very sore point with the
villagers that Constable Gander was compelled to summon
the town brigade before they tried and failed themselves
to subdue any fire! Thus the jog-trot developed into an
undignified gallop—for the distance to the big house
was such that, unless they got a move on, the townies,
with their motor, would reach the fire first! Even now
the clanging bell of the motor engine could plainly be
heard. Attaboy!
Inspector Higgins clung precariously from the end of
the drainpipe and cast an eye at his tormentor. He
measured the distance, braced his feet against the wall—
then jumped. The move was totally unexpected as far
as Sanderson was concerned, mainly because the inspector
had jumped at him. He tried to dodge the hurtling form,
but he had no time. The impact not only knocked all the
breath out of Sanderson's body, but an infinitely more
serious matter, also knocked the revolver from his hand,
together with the electric torch.
As regards the inspector, he suffered neither a broken
leg nor a nasty jar, for the bulky Sanderson served as a
buffer, and broke his fall. He jumped up, seized the
fallen flashlamp and incontinently bolted. The torch, by
reason of its beam, found itself—he dared not wait to
find the revolver in the darkness.
A wildly-cheering mob turned in the lodge gates and
charged up the gravelled path. Inspector Higgins hid
behind some shrubbery somewhat bewildered. The comic


SOME LOCAL RIVALRY I43
fire-brigade had arrived, and before the townies—hence
the jubilation. Higgins breathed a sigh of thankfulness—
Tommy would be rescued.
Then once more he hid behind the shrubbery—unless
he was very much mistaken something was due to happen
in the very near future.
It happened!
A low whine—a louder hum—then a titanic roar. From
the back of the house leapt a high-powered car. A screech
of brakes—a squeal as the tyres skidded on the gravel—
then it was upon them. It scattered the villagers right and
left, completely wrecked the primitive engine, then bore
down to the gates at an alarming speed. The man who had
helped Soapy with the ladder was at the wheel, with Soapy
at his side. At the back of the car was the huge bulk of
Sanderson—and at his side another, muffled to the eyes
with a cap pulled low over his forehead.
Inspector Higgins stepped from his place of conceal-
ment, thankful even for the puny light of the moon, pencil
in one hand, notebook in the other. The car flashed by
and a shot rang out. Higgins was unperturbed.
“KK or XX 57936. That'll be something to go on,
anyway.” Then his eyes noticed the lodge gates. He
sighed.
“Lord!” he muttered. “If I’d only thought of shutting
the gates I could have piled up the whole shoot of 'em.
I must be getting old.”


CHAPTER XVIII
IN WEHICH A CAR IS BORROWED
HE brutal philosophy of Inspector Higgins was
interrupted by the furious clanging of a fire-bell.
Nearer and nearer it came, and then the fire-engine flashed
by the lodge gates. Higgins immediately cupped his hands
and let out a fearsome yell, then waved his arms frantically
to attract the attention of the brass-helmeted fire-fighters.
He was seen at once, and with a grinding of brakes the
fire-engine skidded to a stop a hundred yards or so further
up the road. Then began the tedious business of backing,
carried out with remarkable skill on the part of the driver.
The fire-engine at last turned into the gates.
“There's a man on the roof" shouted Higgins as the
engine passed him, and the rearmost fireman waved an
acknowledgment.
The fire-escape, a long ladder-like structure, appeared
a minute or two later and followed the engine up the
gravelled drive.
Inspector Higgins at last decided that it was safe to
venture into the roadway, when there was a further clang-
ing of a bell, and a private car turned into the gates.
It was the Fire Brigade Superintendent arriving in style.
Higgins held up his hand and the car drew to a standstill.
A helmeted head was thrust out of the rear window.
“Straight ahead?” it queried.
“Can I borrow your car?”
The superintendent was nonplussed—and looked it.
“Well, of all the confounded ” he began weakly, when
the inspector interrupted what had every appearance of
developing into a diatribe in lurid vernacular by present-
I44


A CAR IS BORROWED I45
ing his official card, and muttering the one word: “Ur-
ent.”
g “Sorry,” said the other ungraciously. “I'm on duty.
Stand aside.”
Inspector Higgins, essentially a fair-minded man, knew
that he was wasting his own and the other's time, so he
did not persist. Then he had an inspiration, which had the
added attraction of being perfectly true. Again he muttered
but a single word:
“Incendiarism.”
“What?” the other shouted, scandalised.
“In a car now. Gone five minutes”—cryptically.
One thing about the superintendent immediately en-
deared him to the inspector. Whether it was the result
of his calling, his training, or whatever it was—he made
an instantaneous decision.
“Drive?”
Higgins nodded.
“Jump in. We must get along to the fire.”
Suiting the action to the word, the superintendent and
his chauffeur immediately alighted, the former waved
Higgins to the latter's vacant seat and started off for the
house at the double. The chauffeur at once followed in
his wake, but found time to whisper pridefully to Higgins:
“She can do eighty.”
Inspector Higgins jumped into the car, and slowly
backed out of the drive, turned and started after the
fugitives—seven minutes behind. The car was a beauty—
the engine running with perfect rhythm—but seven
minutes' leeway was a lot to make up.
Higgins set his teeth and pressed on the accelerator with
his foot. The needle of the speedometer pointed to thirty—
thirty-five—forty—forty-five—fifty—and there it wa-
vered—first above then slightly below. Inspector Higgins
knew his limitations. Although he could drive a car, he
was by no means an expert at the game. Fifty miles an
hour was more than his limit of safety, and he knew it.


146 THE MURDER ON THE BUS
That he could still—if the driver's statement could be
believed—get another thirty miles an hour out of the car
was beside the point. To travel at fifty was straining his
ability; to exceed this speed—his skill being what it was—
would be foolish, if not fatal.
A comforting thought was that the fugitives could not
yet be aware that the hunt was up. They would probably
guess that Inspector Higgins would endeavour to obtain
a car and take up the chase, but that he should already
be on their track would not enter into their calcula-
tions.
Unfortunately for them, they would be torn between
two desires—each as urgent as the other. Firstly, to put
as much distance as possible between themselves and
the old house, and secondly—not to go at such a speed as
would involve police interference. True, it was dark, and,
as Higgins had discovered, traffic on this road was seem-
ingly non-existent.
The inspector, too, was in a quandary. Whilst he was
so close upon his quarry, could he afford the time to
stop and telephone ahead? For one thing, at this time
of night, were he to get prompt connection with the police,
the task of notifying outlying districts would be very
great. He decided, rightly or wrongly, to take his chance
of catching up with the other car, and to leave any tele-
phoning to such opportunity as might be thrown in his
direction.
The road, unfortunately, was none too good, and sundry
ice-bound portions of the track added to his danger. It
did not help matters a great deal when he considered
that the other car was in a similar plight. Another minor
matter, which nevertheless did not tend to soothe his nerves,
was the fact that every time the surface of the road became
uneven the bell at his side rattled, and on one occasion when
he passed over a particularly sizeable lump, it rang with
an ear-splitting clang.


A CAR IS BORROWED I47
The shadows thrown by his powerful headlights merely
served to accentuate the pitfalls and hollows in the road-
bed. -
He flashed through a sleepy village before the inhabit-
ants knew he was even coming. A railway arch in the
distance, illuminated by an electric standard overhead,
seemed to leap towards him, roared overhead, and a second
or two later was fifty yards behind.
Then, a mile ahead, he could just make out the tail-
lights of another car at the top of a rise, which disappeared
in the distance as he negotiated a slight bend. When
next he caught sight of the lights they were appreciably
nearer—he was overtaking the car very quickly. A minute
later he thought he could distinguish the sound of her
engine, but this was extremely unlikely. The very speed
with which he was catching up with this car in front
filled him with misgiving. This could not be the car he
was chasing, for the “voice” and his satellites would
scarcely leave their tail-lights showing to guide a possible
pursuer. Unless, of course, they were not yet aware of
any pursuit. If this were their car, the speed it was
travelling as compared with the speed of which it was
undoubtedly capable seemed to suggest that its occupants
Were not SO aware.
“At this rate,” reflected the inspector, “I shall pass it
in a few moments.”
Another problem Should he make enquiries of the
occupants of the car in front? Was the consequent delay
worth the information?
He was overtaking the car so quickly that he decided
he would have to slow up, for the first essential was
that he check the car's registration number. And having
to slow up, he might just as well come to a stop and ask
a few questions. Regretfully he reduced his speed. Im-
mediately the other car accelerated, there was a flash, a
splintering of his windscreen, and a resonant clang of the


148 THE MURDER ON THE BUS
fire-bell at his side caused by the impact of the bullet. The
resultant vibrational humming of the bell seemed to pene-
trate into his very brain.
Of one thing he was thankful. There was no further
need to ask questions of the car in front. They were al-
ready answered. He peered ahead through the broken
glass. All the lights of the other car were now extinguished,
and he wondered whether he dare turn off his own. For
his own safety he decided against this procedure, but it
placed him at a very grave disadvantage. He must so
gauge his speed that whilst keeping up with the car in
front he must not get within pistol-shot. He was unarmed.
This was bad enough during the siege of an hour ago—
now it might prove fatal. Yet he argued within himself
plaintively, how was he to know, when he had started from
Scotland Yard to test the accuracy of a village con-
stable's observations, that he should have gone armed to
such a seemingly inoffensive task?
Damnation! This cautious policy would get him no-
where. Unless he knew how far ahead the other car was,
he stood a darn good chance of losing it altogether. He
accelerated once more, but had to ease down to turn a
corner. Then—hastily he applied his brakes.
Standing in the middle of the road, one hand extended
in a signal demanding a halt, and the other shielding his
eyes from the glare of the inspector's headlights, stood a
uniformed policeman.
Higgins sounded his ear-splitting klaxon in an effort
to clear the way, but the man refused to budge. At another
time Higgins would have commended him for his de-
votion to his duty, but now
“Get to hell out of it!” he yelled, the tyres of the
car screeching on the hard surface of the road. Nothing
doing! The car drew to a halt and the constable advanced,
drawing a notebook from the tail-pocket of his uni-
form.


A CAR IS BORROWED I49
“D'ye think ye own the road or what?” he demanded,
his voice squeaky with emotion. “You’re the second car
in three minutes—”
“Can you read?” demanded the inspector viciously,
thrusting his card into the other's hand. The constable
pulled out a pocket flashlamp and surveyed the piece of
pasteboard. His whole demeanour underwent a complete
change.
“Sorry, sir, I'm sure. Didn't know you was with the
other car.”
“What d'y’mean?”
“There was a uniformed p'lice officer in the car in front,
so I thought xx
“Sure?”
“Yessir. I thought maybe they was in fancy dress or
something, so I took their number and was just going to
report it—in case like.”
“The number?” -
The constable turned back one of the leaves of his
notebook, then read out solemnly:
“XX 57936.” -
“That's the car all right.” Here was a heaven-sent
opportunity. “’Phone that number to the station. Car
must be apprehended at all costs. You'll know the general
direction.”
“Yessir. They went straight ahead, then took the turn-
ing to the right. You can't miss it.”
Higgins let in his clutch and forged ahead, taking the
turning on the right, a few seconds later, on two wheels.
Bit o' luck, meeting that cop! Smart fellow too! Got
the number pat enough . . . Though, now he came to
think about it, how the devil, if the car in front was
showing no lights, had the constable—
It was all over in a flash! A bend in the road, then
five yards ahead was a massive iron gate. Automatically
the inspector jabbed on his brakes, the car slewed round


150 THE MURDER ON THE BUS
and struck the gate broadside on. There was a tremen-
dous crash, and the car turned slowly on its side.
Then the dolorous clanging of the fire-bell, as, perfectly
balanced amid the wreckage, it appeared to be tolling the
knell of the departing spirit of the still form which lay
huddled underneath.


CHAPTER XIX
IN WEIICH THE INSPECTOR IS ATTACKED
HE first impression recorded on the returning con-
sciousness of Inspector Higgins was that of intense
cold. His next—that he was unable to move. Now, how
the deuce had he got into this mess?
He frowned in a concentrated effort of thought, and
slowly the recent happenings began to percolate through
his memory. The chase—the policeman—and lastly, the
iron gate. And now he supposed he was bound hand and
foot and completely in the power of the mysterious
“voice.” Then, as his brain became clearer, he discovered
that he had supposed wrongly. He could not move because
of something heavy on his chest. The only heavy thing
he could think of at the moment was Mr. Sanderson, but
surely he had no corners?
Then the explanation flashed through his brain—he
was still under the wreckage of the car. Whimsically he
wondered what the Fire Brigade Superintendent would
say about it! From the way he had started when Higgins
had asked if he might borrow the car he should be able
to express himself fairly pithily! A tentative explorative
movement of his foot, and Higgins found that he was not
so firmly secured as he had thought. He wriggled, and was
badly startled when again the fire-bell began to toll, al-
though it sounded muffled.
He was surprised to find that it was no longer pitch dark.
Another sinuous move, and one arm was free. He turned
slightly, and thereby released the other.
To extricate himself from the debris of the car was a
severe struggle, but he battled worthily. His feet were
I51


I52 THE MURDER ON THE BUS
the worst job—not that he suffered from the traditional
large feet of his profession, but they seemed inextricably
mixed up with the wire of the klaxon horn.
At last it was accomplished and he stepped from the
ruins. Gingerly he felt over his body. Barring the fact
that the bump occasioned by Constable Goldfinch's lack of
forethought, which had almost vanished the previous day,
was once more in its full glory, he appeared to have escaped
serious injury.
“Born lucky,” he muttered thankfully.
He attributed his escape to two factors. Firstly, that
his new-formed suspicion of the bona fides of the constable
had caused him automatically to reduce speed with the
half-formed idea of going back, and thus he had not been
travelling nearly so fast as he might have been; and
secondly, to the wonderful upholstery of the car, for he
had found himself wedged between two thickly-padded
cushions, which had protected him from broken bones.
The bump on his head had apparently been caused by the
woodwork of the body when the car had overturned.
And the intense cold was now explained, as was the
slightly decreased blackness of the night, for, whilst he
had been lying unconscious a mantle of snow, nearly an
inch thick, had covered the countryside.
And now to collect his thoughts.
Dimly he had wondered why the tremendous noise
occasioned by the collision with the gate had not aroused
the house to which the gate must give entrance; this was
easily explained by a notice pasted on the right-hand sup-
port of the gate, advertising the coming sale of the prop-
erty, with vacant possession.
And the constable who had wilfully misdirected him?
Of course, his object had been to send the inspector and
the car to perdition. Yet surely it would have been by
far the easier plan to shoot the inspector who had been so
conveniently unsuspecting. Had the bogus constable done
so he would have had the additional problem of disposing


THE INSPECTOR IS ATTACKED I53
of the car with its prominent fire-bell. Possibly they had
considered that misdirection would be the safer course,
and again, it was possible that his very gullibility had
saved his life. Possibly they had considered (quite erro-
neously that to murder a police-inspector would give an
added incentive to any police action. (Murder was mur-
der, whoever the victim—no added incentive being
needed.)
And why had the bogus constable gone to the trouble
to explain that there was a uniformed police official in the
other car? The explanation in this case was fairly simple.
The man must have donned the uniform whilst the chase
had been in progress—in all probability had been wearing
it when the inspector had at last caught up with them—
and, for all they knew, Higgins might have noticed it
just before the shot was fired.
And who was the pseudo-constable? It certainly wasn't
Sanderson—his bulk alone was against this. Neither was
it Soapy—for the same reason, but from the other end
of the scale. It might, of course, have been Soapy's helper
with the ladder—but he had been driving, and so could
not possibly have changed into a constable's uniform on
the way. And if it were not he, then it must have been
the “voice.”
And Higgins had met him face to face!
At least—not exactly face to face. Inspector Higgins
strove to remember the man's features, but was baffled.
Whilst the headlights had been shining upon him he had
carefully shielded his face, ostensibly to protect his eyes
from the glare, so Higgins had seen nothing. Out of the
headlights the darkness was intense, so again the inspector
had seen nothing. And the man's voice? Cold and calcu-
lating? No, certainly not—speaking with emotion. That
was how Higgins had described it to himself.
Still, if the man had not made the mistake of knowing
the car's number, Higgins's suspicions, however belated,
would not have been aroused—he would never have re-


I54 THE MURDER ON THE BUS
duced speed—and even now might be lying stark and . . .
A lot of “ifs” about this sort of reasoning. And here
he was, sitting down like a stuffed mummy, moralising,
whilst . . .
He staggered to his feet, squared his shoulders, and
started back down the road in the snow. He reached the
corner which he had taken on two wheels so glibly after
his meeting with the constable. There was a painted
notice there which, in his violent hurry, he had missed
before. He flashed the torch, glad to find it uninjured,
and read the notice. “Private Road.”
“Thank you very much,” he said, and probably would
have raised his hat were it not lying on the library table of
the big house. Fancy! That was two hats in two days—
irretrievably lost. Irretrievably? Well, he might get the one
back from the big house if it weren't burned down by this
time. And that wasn't a hat, it was a cap! Higgins was
generally meticulous in his statements. Here! Steady on,
old chap! Pull yourself together. Lose your hat if you
like, but not your head!
Inspector Higgins turned to the left into the main
road. Here the snow was much trampled, and he was
amazed at the amount of traffic which must have passed
since the snow had fallen, and so early in the morning
too, until he realised that the trampling had been done by
a herd of cattle, which was probably on its way to market.
He stumbled on his way, then stopped. It was just about
here that he had the absurd interview with the bogus
constable. Just about here— Good gracious! What
was that?
Standing back from the road was a small cottage,
plastered with “To Let” and “To be sold” notices—lot
of vacant property here!—with curtainless windows and
an uninhabited air. Yet from the roadway to the front
door, impressed in the snow, were the footprints of
a single person. Whoever had entered this empty house


THE INSPECTOR IS ATTACKED I55
must obviously still be there, for the footprints led towards
the cottage—unless the person had left the place by the
back way. It might, of course, be the “voice,” but in any
case an occupant of an ostensibly empty house is simply
asking for enquiry.
Higgins crept round the house under cover of a con-
venient box-hedge surrounding it. Barring that one line
of footprints the cottage stood in virgin smow. The
footprints were those of a man, and, in his present state
the inspector did not feel competent to tackle him alone.
The prosaic explanation was that the man was the owner
of the property. Then again it might be that a tramp had
gone into the empty cottage for shelter from the snow, and
was even now asleep within. Against this was the fact
that the footprints went straight to the front door—there
was no preliminary investigation of windows. Must be
the owner or his representative. Yet this was where he
had seen the policeman.
Higgins went a few yards further up the road, un-
decided. Then he resumed his course back to the last
town. A hundred yards further on he heard the sounds
of a horse and trap coming up behind. He stopped. It
was a mail-van, red and box-shaped, with a uniformed
postman in front, driving. The inspector stepped into the
roadway and held up his hand. The resultant effect was
entirely different from his expectations—the man gave
him one startled look, slashed the horse with his whip,
made a mighty swipe at Higgins as he clattered past, and
a few seconds later had disappeared in the distance. Hig-
gins stood perfectly still until the sounds of the horse's
hooves could be heard no more, then he walked to a gate,
climbed up it wearily, then perched himself precariously
on the top bar. Philosophically he searched for his pipe,
tobacco and matches. And then he grinned. Now he came
to think about it, he was in a mess. His face undoubtedly
was grimed with soot from the chimney of the big house,


156 THE MURDER ON THE BUS
his clothes were torn as a result of the same adventure and
from the smash, and, taking it by and large, the postman
could not be blamed for his precipitate flight.
And as for the postman. A most unwarranted and
vicious attack had been attempted upon His Majesty's
Mails by a tramp. Highway robbery! He lashed at his
horse and galloped away. For the first time in twenty
years he passed his Post Office ahead of the scheduled
time. The fact that he passed at all caused grave misquiet
to the sub-postmistress. Either his horse was bolting or he
was drunk—that was her verdict. He dashed up to the
sub-police station at the very edge of the town, jumped
from his seat, and a moment later was serving out a
thrilling story to the stolid sergeant-in-charge. Possibly,
but for his patent excitement, he would not have been
believed. As it was . . .
Before Inspector Higgins was aware of what was
happening they were upon him. A concerted surprise attack
by a sergeant, three constables, and an excited postman
who kept well into the background was entirely successful.
Higgins's first warning was an agitated cry of:
“There 'e be!”
A moment later, before the inspector had time to re-
move the pipe from his mouth, he was completely sur-
rounded. He had a momentary misgiving that it was the
“voice’s” crowd, but the sight of the postman not only
reassured him, but gave him an insight as to what actually
had happened.
“I want you.” It was the sergeant speaking. Higgins
vouchsafed no reply, merely feeling for a card, which he
handed to the officer. He seemed to be handing out official
cards like handbills these days. The sergeant was suitably
impressed, but stared at the disreputable inspector in
amazement. Then:


THE INSPECTOR IS ATTACKED I57
“In disguise, sir?” he queried diffidently.
Higgins laughed. “Er—not exactly. I'm sorry you've
had your journey for nothing, but . . . By the way, to
whom does that cottage a little further along the road
belong?”
“Dunno, sir. Whoever it is, he's asking too much.
Can't let or sell it.”
“Yet there's someone in it now.”
“There is?”—eagerly. “Then our journey has not been
for nothing. Come along boys.”
“The man inside may be dangerous.”
The sergeant simply looked at the inspector, and Hig-
gins needed no further rebuke.


CHAPTER XX
IN WIHICH A SUPERINTENDENT FAILS TO OBLIGE
THE uniformed sergeant surveyed the footprints with
professional interest. Now that the dawn had broken
they were much more distinct.
“Drunk!” he muttered disappointedly. Indeed, his ac-
cusation against the intruder at the house seemed well
supported, for the footprints (about fourteen in number)
were distributed in a somewhat erratic manner. The direc-
tion was uniform but the spacing between each print was
uneven.
Stolidly he marched up to the front door and knocked
peremptorily. One of the constables walked round to
the back of the house, whilst the remaining pair each
peered into a window either side of the front door. There
was no answer, neither was there any sound of movement
within. Inspector Higgins was an interested spectator from
the roadside. Another unfruitful knock, and the sergeant
produced a knife, slipped the catch of the right-hand win-
dow, and asked one of the underlings for a “bunk-up.”
Three minutes later he reappeared at the front door with
a look of utter astonishment upon his face.
“Empty!” he called out to Higgins, dramatically.
He was right.
The house was bare, even of furniture, save a deal
table upon which rested a flimsy envelope, and a broken
chair. Higgins picked up the envelope. On the outside
was printed: “Notepaper. 4 sheets and 4 envelopes. One
Penny. Value! Value!! VALUE!!!” The contents, taking
into consideration the texture of the three remaining en-
velopes and sheets of parºd possibly been worth one
I


A SUPERINTENDENT FAILS TO OBLIGE 1.59
farthing. For some unaccountable reason the stationer had
forgotton to mention that the envelope had also contained
a sheet of blotting-paper!
Higgins held the sheet of blotting-paper to the light
to read the following message.
Meet to-morrow night here at cottage.
Nothing more. The envelope had apparently been
allowed to dry.
The sergeant was stamping about the rooms badly
puzzled. His muddied trail from the window through
which he had entered to the front door was plainly visible.
Inspector Higgins beckoned the man towards him.
“When you entered, Sergeant, were there any foot-
marks in the rooms like yours?”
“No, sir. Now you come to mention it, there weren't.”
“And why?”
“It licks me, sir.”
“I’ll tell you. The man, whoever he was, entered the
house before the snow fell. When the time came for him to
go, he found the inch of snow outside, so he merely walked
out—backwards!”
“Lumme! That was cute!”
“Very. I ought to have noticed the erratic spacing
of the steps. It's a lesson.”
“But why did he do that, sir?”
“Because, I imagine, he was quick to seize upon an
opportunity. We have accomplished his purpose.”
“And that was?”
“To invite enquiry into the house. A line of foot-
prints in the snow served his purpose.”
“But he couldn't bargain on the snow.”
“No, I wouldn't mind betting that during the day
you will receive some communication which will lead you
to search this house. When you do I should apprehend
the communicant.”


16o THE MURDER ON THE BUS
“But what is there to find?”
“This.” Inspector Higgins held up the sheet of blotting-
per. “A man cute enough to seize the opportunity
afforded by the fallen snow is not going to be fool enough
to make such an elementary mistake as leaving behind
blotting-paper which he has just used on a letter. We were
meant to find this. And to-morrow night the police must
be here—we can't help ourselves. It looks to me to be
either a double-cross or a frame-up. That's American,
but self-explanatory. I'll beta level quid that whoever turns
up to-morrow night is due for a surprise.”
“But we can't do anything if anyone does turn up, sir.”
“I quite realise that. Therefore I say that we haven't
yet found all that we were meant to find here.”
“Such as . . . .”
“I really haven't the faintest idea.”
Inspector Higgins made the discovery, which was not
surprising, for the policeman's uniform was found in the
chimney, and the inspector of late seemed to have a pen-
chant for chimneys. Not a complete uniform, but helmet
and jacket. In the tail pocket of the jacket was a pocket-
book, in which was written: XX 57936. So it was the
uniform the man had worn the night before. Very
thorough. Had Higgins asked for the notebook there
was the number 1
And that reminded him . . . it was very funny that
he should have forgotton . . . that number ought to be
broadcast to the police with instructions to apprehend.
. . . He called the sergeant to him and gave the neces-
sary order. The man looked at him queerly . . . must
keep this book . . . fingerprints . . . and the smashed
car round the corner . . . he'd forgotten about that
too. . . .
Inspector Higgins collapsed, an inert heap upon the
floor of the cottage.


A SUPERINTENDENT FAILS TO OBLIGE 16I
“Got the constitution of a rhinoceros! . . . Slight con-
cussion. Probably a day's rest will set him on his feet
again.”
Inspector Higgins opened his eyes to find a kindly
gentleman leaning over him. Near by was the sergeant,
sitting on a white chair, looking exceedingly uncomfortable
and twiddling his helmet round and round on the tips of
his fingers. A buxom nurse on the other side of the bed.
And something cool and soothing on his head. He thought
at first, romantically, that it was the nurse's hand, but
discovered it to be a lump of ice.
JHe smiled. It seemed to be catching, for the gentleman,
then the nurse, then, rather sheepishly, the sergeant, fol-
lowed suit.
“All right, Sergeant, we'll leave him to your tender
mercies,” said the kindly gentleman, obviously a doctor,
beckoning to the nurse. The pair retired, and the sergeant
cast at the inspector a look of such reproach that Higgins
frowned.
“You might 'a told me, sir, how bad you was.”
The frown vanished, and a smile took its place.
“I didn't know, else I might 'a done. Many thanks for
bringing me here. Now then, Sergeant, there's one or two
things I’d like you to do for me.”
“At your service, sir.”
“Thanks again. Let me see now. Ah, yes. That number
—the car registration number, you know—”
“Circulated, sir.”
“Good. And the smashed car—you found that, I sup-
pose?”
“Lumme, sir. So that was it—was it?”
“It was.”
“It’s just been reported, sir. We couldn't find a-er—
body or anything, sir. We naturally wondered >>
“It was me all right, Sergeant. I wish you'd do me a
favour and tell the superintendent of the Fire Brigade
about it. Break it to him gently. He may have a few words


I62 THE MURDER ON THE BUS
to say on the matter, but tell him to send his bill in to
Scotland Yard.”
“Very good, sir. Anything else?”
“Yes. The brigade was called to a fire last night—a big
house just outside Medhurst village. Please see that there
is a police guard placed over the house until I can look
it over. I’ll be along to-morrow.”
“I’m sure I hope so, sir,” said the sergeant, doubtfully.
“Then there was a boy found on the roof, whom they
may have taken into custody. He's all right, but I'd like to
see him before he's released.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And—oh, yes! To-morrow night. I should like to be
at the cottage in case anyone should turn up.”
“Yessir. We've had the other communication which you
said we might receive.”
“You’ve got the messenger?”
“No, sir. It came second-hand. It was a note pushed
in the letter-box of our local rag, sir. They passed it on to
us. Here it is.”
Inspector Higgins took a typewritten slip from the hand
of the sergeant.
To the Editor.
Sir,
It is a public scandal that members of the Police
Force of this town should use the empty cottage near the
Park Gate as a dormitory when supposed to be on duty. I
dare you to publish this statement.
Pro Bono Publico.
“Good old Pro Bono—the standby of the anonymous
letter-writer. Of course, the writer guessed that the letter
would be handed on to you. Safer than delivering it to you
direct.”
“Yessir. Specially as we're open all night.”
“Will you attend to all that?”


A SUPERINTENDENT FAILS TO OBLIGE 163
“Of course, sir. Er—I hope you'll soon be up and
about again.”
Inspector Higgins smiled his thanks, turned over on
his side, and a moment later was sleeping peacefully, worn
out in mind and body.
It was late evening when the sergeant returned. In-
spector Higgins was sitting up in bed, smoking his pipe
and reading the morning's paper. He felt considerably
better, and had been promised by the doctor that he should
be allowed to leave the following morning.
The sergeant tiptoed into the room, and Higgins laid
down his paper.
“Well, Sergeant?”
“I’ve carried out your instructions, sir. They've placed
a guard over the big house. In fact they'd already done
so on the instructions of the Fire Brigade Super. Some-
thing to do with incendiarism, I think. The owners had
sloped.”
“I knew that.”
“An' so has the kid.”
“Young Hamper?”
“Dunno his name, sir, but it's the chap they rescued off
the roof.”
“Gone, eh? H'm.” This was remarkable, unless the boy
had something to hide. Was he still hankering after his
melodramatic revenge? Higgins had taken rather a fancy
to Tommy, possibly occasioned by their recent adventure
together, and he sincerely hoped that the youngster was
up to no mischief. He'd have to place young Tommy in
clink or somewhere out of harm's way until the matter
was settled.
“And the Fire Brigade Superintendent? I hope you
broke his loss gently. I think I warned you he might have
a few words to say on the matter. Let's have a verabatim
report this time. I'm old enough—and, I hope, well
enough—to stand his language. In any case, I'm always


164 THE MURDER ON THE BUS
willing to learn. Fire away.” Inspector Higgins leaned
back reflectively upon his pillow, closed his eyes and placed
the tips of his fingers together in an attitude of pontifical
benignity.
The sergeant tittered, then: “He said: “Dear me!’ sir.”
“Followed by—?”
“‘Well, I never did in all my life!’”
“Good Lord! He didn't finish up with ‘Ora pro nobis'
by any chance?”
“No, sir”—stolidly.
“‘Kiss me, Hardy'?”
“Me name ain't Hardy, either, sir—it's Johnson.”


CHAPTER XXI
IN WIHICH SOME FINGERPRINTS ARE RECOGNISED
WAVE of repulsion swept over Inspector Higgins as
he once more surveyed the fireplace in the library of
the big house. It was black with fallen soot, as were the
bindings of the books of the library. The late occupier
must have got much more than he bargained for when he
threw the petrol on the blaze. Such an act must have been
occasioned by a vein of vicious cruelty, which for the mo-
ment had over-ridden his common sense. It had been his
undoing, for without the resultant blaze of light from the
top of the chimney the fire brigades would never have been
summoned, and the quartet would never have been obliged
to make a bolt.
Quartet? Yes, that was right. Soapy, Sanderson, the
driver of the car, and the leader of the gang—the man
with the evil voice. Four of them, all crooks.
The library contained ample evidence of their recent
flight. A section of the book-shelves was found to be mov-
able, for in their precipitation they had failed to re-fasten
it securely, and it had opened on hinges like a door. Be-
hind this section was a safe door flush with the wall, which
had been opened by a representative of the makers, and
revealed batches of papers but nothing of monetary
value.
Inspector Higgins removed the papers and placed them
on the table preparatory to going through them for pos-
sible clues. Underneath the table he found his cap—and
was duly thankful.
He seated himself at the desk, then cupped his hands
and blew into them. Gosh! But it was damned cold!
165


I66 THE MURDER ON THE BUS
The first batch consisted of a bundle of letters. Higgins
slipped off the rubber band, and glanced quickly through
at the superscription on the envelopes. There were twenty
letters in all, twelve of which were addressed to different
people. He opened the first, the envelope of which read:
Mrs. Editha Blackman,
High Street,
Holyworth.
The letter began: My darling. Hastily Higgins turned
to the end. Your lover, Denis.
“Tripeſ” was his unspoken comment.
He turned to the next, and was surprised to find it was
in similar strain. Reflectively he gazed at the ceiling, then
slowly nodded his head as if in mental agreement with
himself. He uttered one word.
“Blackmail.” -
Then he scowled. Of all the loathsome creatures which
invest this earth, the blackmailer, in his opinion, was the
most detestable, and the hardest to catch. This was easy
of explanation. The very reluctance of his victims to
prosecute afforded the blackmailer his greatest protection.
It is easy to moralise. It is easy to understand a faithless
husband or a foolish wife. It is more difficult to compre-
hend an indiscreet letter—yet lovers are notoriously im-
prudent. That there was a good market for such letters,
generally obtained by dishonest servants, Inspector Hig-
gins was well aware. And then, the crowning folly, the
initial payment to ensure silence. If people would only
realise that the blackmailer had an insatiable maw—that
the first payment was but the fore-runner of many' How
many lives had been ruined in this way! How many sui-
cides could be laid at the blackmailer's door.
Inspector Higgins clenched his fist. “Why the hell
don't the poor fools come to us?” he muttered, through
his teeth. “We’re human. We won't give 'em away.”


SOME FINGERPRINTS ARE RECOGNISED 167
Yet he knew, in his heart, that this was more easily
said than done. A belated sense of shame kept them quiet,
and a forlorn hope that perhaps the blackmailer was at
last satisfied. “Lord! What fools these mortals be!”
“So that's his lay, is it? I'll get him now or—or bust!”
There was a knock at the library door. In response to
the inspector's invitation a man appeared, armed with a
Camera.
“Can I operate in here, sir? I've been over the other
rooms, and got a few photos. There should be a tidy few
fingerprints here.”
“Certainly. And whilst you're at it”—he felt in his
pocket and produced the notebook taken from the uniform
found in the cottage—“you might give this the once-over
for prints.”
“Very good, sir.” The man pulled his overcoat more
firmly round his throat. “Mighty cold in here, sir. Why
don't you go in the next room—there's a fire laid there?”
“Good idea. I think I will.” He gathered up his papers
and proceeded to the next room, which was much smaller.
He pulled out a box of matches and dropped on one knee
to light the fire. He was just about to set light to the paper
in the fireplace when he was struck by its distinctive colour.
He frowned, then dragged it from beneath its covering of
wood and coal. It was a financial paper, dated a month
before, and he gazed at it reflectively. Now where had
he—?
“Got it!” A sheet of the same newspaper had served as
packing for the large hat found in the room of the late
Henry Hamper. Thoughtfully he re-laid the fire, struck
another match, and lit it. “I wonder,” he muttered. “I
wonder.”
A file of newspaper cuttings was duly inspected, most
of which seemed to have been culled from the “Deaths”
columns of sundry newspapers, whilst others came from
“Recent Wills.” Higgins was surprised at this, but coming


I68 THE MURDER ON THE BUS
across the name of Mrs. Editha Blackman he guessed
their significance. No wonder the pile of letters had been
left behind, for their original owners were dead, and the
usefulness of the letters had ceased. They were probably
kept merely in case some relative of the deceased might
be induced to purchase them and thus save scandal.
Higgins gazed first at the letters, then at the fire he had
recently ignited and which was now going strongly. He
picked up the bundle and thrust it into the thick of the
flames.
“If only their original recipients had had the sense to
do likewise,” he reflected, cynically, “they would have
saved themselves a hell of a lot of trouble.”
“I’ve finished now, sir.”
It was the photographer from Scotland Yard, who had
called in to see whether the inspector had any further
instructions.
“Good. Get Sergeant Mercier to look them over and
tell him to let me know if any of them have passed through
our hands. There's a telephone here, isn't there? Right.
Tell him to ring me up here if he's got anything to say.
I shall be here all day, and may stay the night.”
“Very good, sir.”
Three other things of more or less importance were
found in or around the big house, all of which gave some
small aid to Inspector Higgins in his investigation.
The first was a contract note from a firm of stock-
brokers relating to a purchase of some bonds to bearer
for a Mr. Robinson. The note was found tucked in the
middle of a bundle of tradesmen's receipts, and had ob-
viously been placed there by mistake. Higgins made a note
of the address of the stockbrokers, and decided to call on
them at the first opportunity to get further particulars of
the transaction. He did not think for one moment that they


SOME FINGERPRINTS ARE RECOGNISED 169
could supply any useful information, but was merely
following out his usual policy—thoroughly to investigate
any clue, however slender.
The second was the discovery in a large shed of a
number of rifles and a target. This discovery set his mind
at rest on a minor point which had been worrying him:
During the “battle” of the library, why had not the
sounds of the shots caused enquiry at the village? The
answer was now obvious—they were used to such sounds
from the range in the shed.
The third was a few inches of rubber tubing found in
the ashes of the furnace fire used to drive the dynamo for
the electric lighting of the house.
Inspector Higgins was gratefully imbibing a cup of
tea brewed for him by one of the guards of the big house,
when the telephone bell rang. Hastily draining the cup he
hurried to the instrument.
“Hallo! Are you Medhurst One Three?”
“I—er—I—er— Yes,” added Higgins in desperation,
after an unsuccessful inspection of the instrument to
ascertain the number.
“London wants you.”
A period of splutterings and ear-splitting noises, then:
“Inspector Higgins, please?”
“Speaking.”
“Oh. Is that you, sir?” (The inspector sighed wearily.)
“Mercier speaking this end. I’ve tabulated those finger-
prints of the house, sir.”
“Good. Fire away!”
“About half-a-dozen of 'em belong to ‘Soapy' Sudd,
sir.”
“I guessed that.”
“Then there's a few of ‘Samson' Sanderson.”
“Oh! Has he passed through our hands, then?”
“No, sir. The print came from New York under our


17o THE MURDER ON THE BUS
scheme of exchange. Which scheme also accounts for one
of the other prints, that of Jacob Heckenstein, a notorious
American car-thief.”
“Ah! That would be the driver.”
“Pardon, sir?”
“Nothing, Mercier. Anything else?”
“Then there are one or two prints similiar to that found
on the doorknob of 79, Horton Road, that empty house on
the X 87 route, which I can't trace.” -
“Good Lord!”
“Then there were four prints left. One lot are yours,
I think, sir.”
“Most probably.”
“Then one lot of a small or young man.”
“Young Thomas Hamper's, most likely.”
“Thank you, sir. I'll make a note of that.”
“And the others?”
“One lot belongs to that man found shot on top of the
bus, whom you have indentified as being named Ray-
mond.”
“Ah! We're getting warm.”
“And the other lot were made by that suicide person—
Henry Hamper.”
Inspector Higgins thoughtfully replaced the receiver on
its hook. . . .


172 THE MURDER ON THE BUS
owning responsibility. “Our country cousins, sir, are apt
to be somewhat less exacting in the fit of their-er—
headgear, than we of London, I regret to say.”
Inspector Higgins was silent for a moment, then:
“Er—have you a branch at Medhurst?”
“High Street. Number seventy-seven.”
“Thank you very much indeed.”
The manager courteously offered to send the hat to
Scotland Yard, and Higgins gratefully accepted.
His next call was to a large building in a turning off
Throgmorton Street. A brass plate announced that these
were the offices of Messrs. Davis & Camperdown, Stock-
brokers. Neither Mr. Davis nor Mr. Camperdown had
yet put in an appearance, but the chief clerk placed him-
self at the inspector's disposal.
“One of your contract notes?”
“Yessir.”
“I’d like some particulars of your client.”
“I’m very sorry, sir, but I'm afraid that our client's
business is strictly confidential, and I have no—er—my
responsibility—er— Thank goodness! Here's Mr. Davis.”
A tall gentleman in silk hat, frock coat, striped trousers,
white spats and patent boots, carrying lemon-coloured
gloves and an immaculately-furled umbrella, breezed into
the office with a beaming smile. The chief clerk hurried
over and held a whispered consultation, as a result of
which Higgins was shown into the private office of the
resplendent person.
“Yes, Inspector. We’ve had a number of commissions
to execute for Mr. Robinson. I’ve never seen the gentle-
man, but he always sends cash in advance for all purchases
and we send him the securities in due course. As a matter
of fact we've got a small credit in his name as a result of
his overpayment of some previous commission. It's hard
to gauge the exact sum required when bonds of a round
figure are purchased.”
“How does he communicate with you?”


A CAR IS FOUND I73
“By letter. He stipulated for international bonds—
bearer bonds—of world-wide negotiability, and fought
shy of registered stocks. In fact—”
“Might I see the correspondence, please?”
“Certainly.”
A touch of a bell was answered with amazing promp-
titude, and a few seconds later Mr. Davis had placed in
the inspector's hands the file of Mr. Robinson. There was
only one letter from Mr. Robinson, and the other docu-
ments consisted of duplicates of the bought notes and
letters enclosing the bonds, and receipts signed on Mr.
Robinson's behalf.
The letter read as follows:
Messrs. Davis & Camperdown, Stockbrokers,
I Horse Street,
Poplar.
Dear Sirs,
I am enclosing herewith £500 in notes for the pur-
chase of bearer bonds easily negotiable, as I may have to
raise money hurriedly in the future. I leave the choice to
you, but suggest debentures. They must be bearer securi-
ties, not common or deferred stocks,
Yours faithfully,
T. Robinson.
To the inspector's vision but one word of the whole
letter stood out, and that was wrongly spelled.
I, Horse Street, Poplar, proved to be an accommodation
address.
After lunch Inspector Higgins returned to Scotland
Yard, and, seated at his desk, reviewed the position.
It seemed fairly patent now that the mysterious “voice”
was the leader of a gang, of which both the man murdered
on the bus-top and Henry Hamper had recently been
-


I74 THE MURDER ON THE BUS
members. If not members they had recently had dealings
with the gang. And both had died unnatural deaths.
The man on the bus-top, recognised by the village
constable as named Raymond, had been shot from a house
on the route of the X 87 bus, and the thumbprint of the
mysterious leader had been found in such a house. Cir-
cumstantial, but—
Henry Hamper, officially a suicide, had died from coal-
gas poisoning, but not in his room at Birkenhead Man-
sions, and in the ashes of the furnace at the big house
was found a small piece of rubber tubing. And coal-gas
was laid on at the big house. Very flimsy, but—
The inspector whilst chasing the gang's car had been
wilfully misdirected by a man in a constable's uniform,
and such a man had helped home Henry Hamper on that
Sunday night.
Raymond had been shot in the back of the neck, and
there was a rifle range adjoining the big house.
Curiouser and curiouser.
And “deferred” mis-spelled on two occasions.
The reason for Mr. Robinson's aversion to other than
bearer securities was fairly apparent. In fact his reason
given was indubitably true, for it was exceedingly likely
that at this present moment he was endeavouring “to
raise money hurriedly.” Inspector Higgins reached for
his telephone in a hurry himself, and promptly proceeded
to put a spoke in that wheel, for he caused a request to
be sent to the Stock Exchange Committee black-listing
sundry bonds of certain distinctive numbers. Not that he
could hope to stop any dealings in such numbers but that
he might thereby trace the members of the gang. This
accomplished he settled himself once more comfortably
in his chair.
He was immediately interrupted by the advent of Ser-
geant Mercier, who held in his hand the notebook found
in the cottage.


A CAR IS FOUND I75
“Nothing doing here, sir.”
Of course not! Now Higgins came to think of it, the
bogus constable had been wearing gloves.
“I’ve sent, as instructed, an all-stations call for the
apprehension of Sudd, Sanderson and Heckenstein, sir,
with official photographs. We ought to get them fairly
quickly. I imagine, from his description, that Sanderson
is a bit too big to hide. And a bit of luck's come our way
at last, sir.”
“That's very cheering,” responded the inspector, dryly.
“Yessir. We've got your car, sir.”
“What on earth are you talking about?”
Higgins well knew Sergeant Mercier's penchant for
hanging out a story, and sometimes it irritated him be-
yond measure. Sergeant Mercier opened the notebook
and read out therefrom :
“XX 57936.”
“You have?” said Higgins, interested at last. “Where?”
“Outside Moorgate Station.”
“Any arrests?”
It was half an hour later, and Inspector Higgins was
being conducted to the cell in which Bobby Bunter was
being temporarily incarcerated. He was not there in a
strictly official capacity, but by courtesy of the City Police
who are without the jurisdiction of Scotland Yard. He
and Bobby had met before—officially.
“Hallo, Bobby!”
“Hallo, Cuthbert, old son! Here we are again!” The
prisoner grinned at Higgins with engaging and imprudent
good-humour. He was about the same age as the inspector,
but looked younger. Crime sat easily upon his shoulders,
for he had no moral consciousness, neither had he any


A CAR IS FOUND 177
doubt be untruthful. The other continued, with plaintive
air :
“There was the car, outside the Mansions, simply ask-
ing to be taken. I felt an urge, Cuthbert, me boy, a power-
ful urge. And, woe is me, I fell.” A prodigious, hypocriti-
cal sigh.
Higgins shook his head sadly from side to side as he
watched the other's exhibition.
“Bobby, what a magnificent humbug you are!”
“Aren't I? Yet, you know, people ought to be equally
responsible who leave their cars unattended, and thus
lead “such a destined wretch as I’ into temptation.” He
stopped for a moment, then: “Quotation from Cowper
—or Goldsmith—or somebody or other.”
“So it was left outside the Mansions, eh?”
“Yes. Unattended, with the engine running. Now I
ask you, as man to man—”
“What Mansions?” queried the inspector, casually.
In fact his question was a little too casual, for Bobby
became instantly on the alert.
“Hallo-allo-allo. So we don't know what Mansions, eh?
There's a black man amongst the firewood.” An explana-
tion seemed to dawn upon him. “Do you mean to tell me
that the car I lifted belonged to a-er—brother profes-
sional?”
“Something like that, Bobby.”
“Gosh! I'm sorry. I reelly am. My impetuosity has
placed his liberty in jeopardy. I may have spoiled his get-
away. So that's why he left the engine running. Even
now he may be running round with a sackful of swag
and nowhere to put it. Gosh!”
He relapsed into silence as though the mental picture
he had conjured up was too much for him. Higgins
waited for a moment, then he asked again, casually:
“What Mansions did you say, Bobby?”
Bunter merely looked at him, shaking his head, nega-
tively:


178 THE MURDER ON THE BUS
“Nothing doing, Cuthbert. After all, noblesse oblige—
live and let live—honour amongst—ahem!—and—er—
what not!”
Inspector Higgins moved a little closer to the prisoner,
then lowered his voice.
“Bobby. Do you think we might come to some—er—
arrangement?”
“Cuthbert, you pain me beyond expression. I—I thought
you were different somehow.” There was a glint of steel
in his eyes as he gazed at the inspector. “Higgins, what
money I may have I'll keep. I’ve never purchased my
freedom yet and—”
“D'y'think I want your filthy money?” interrupted
Higgins in a loud voice.
“Sorry. My mistake. You want information, eh?”
“Yes”—eagerly.
“And he's known me since before the War,” remarked
Bobby, to the world in general.
“So there's nothing doing, eh?”
“Bull's-eye!”
“Ah, well. It's a great pity. To think that once again
you must languish in durance vile.”
“And it was only last Tuesday that I had my hair
waved.”
Inspector Higgins left the cell, and immediately sought
out the superintendent of the police station. A hurried
consultation, and then a few minutes later a sergeant
called upon Bobby with the intimation that he was free
to go.
“That's very kind of you. But pray enlighten me as to
the reason for your change of front.”
“It’s like this Mr. Bunter”—Bobby smirked at the
prefix. “We understand that the car might have been
loaned to yo its owner. At any rate, we have had no
intimation that it has been stolen, and therefore there is
no question of prosecution.”
“You’re quite right. The car was loaned to me. Give a


A CAR IS FOUND I79
dog a bad name—you know the rest. I suppose I can have
the car back?”
“Certainly, sir. With our compliments and apologies.”
Bobby Bunter passed through the swing door of the
police station and down the half a dozen steps with a
magnificent swagger, and entered the car. Nonchalantly
he lit a cigarette, pulled on his gloves, stepped on the self-
starter, and let in the clutch. With old-world grace he
raised his hat to the uniformed constable on duty outside
the station, and received a dignified salute in return.
With an impudent wave of his hand, he was gone.
**


CHAPTER XXIII
IN WIHICH A MAN IS CAPTURED
Bº. BUNTER set off at a quick pace. Moorgate,
Newgate Street, Holborn, Strand, Marble Arch,
Edgware Road, and then turned to the left. Within
twenty minutes of his release he drew into the kerb out-
side a block of flats. He opened the door and stepped out,
leaving the engine running. Then he sounded the klaxon
horn vigorously. Having accomplished this he walked
away, whistling. He had acted according to his lights.
Having robbed a “brother professional” of his car he
had done his best to return it.
It was unfortunate that he should run into Inspector
Higgins as he was turning the corner. He guessed the
significance of the meeting at once.
“Blast you, Higgins! You trapped me into this!”
“Sorry, Bobby,” responded the inspector, apologeti-
cally. “But needs must . . .”
Bunter seemed immediately to recover his good-
humour.
“Cuthbert, me boy,” he said, admiringly, “if I had your
brains I could make a success of my profession!”
“Bobby, old man, if you had any brains at all you'd
never be in it.” The inspector snapped his fingers, and a
man came running up. Higgins pointed to Bobby.
“Cart him off to the cooler. We don't want him giving
any alarm.”
Higgins watched his departure sombrely. After all,
loyalty, however misplaced, covered a magnitude of sin-
fulness. -
Bobby Bunter would have slept much more soundly
180


A MAN IS CAPTURED 181
in his cell that night had he but known that the raid on
the Mansions was an utter frost.
Inspector Higgins arrived at the country cottage about
nine o'clock that evening. He had four helpers from the
local police station, all in plain clothes, and in charge of
the sergeant who had taken him to the hospital and had
carried out his instructions the previous day.
The snow, which had been the cause of a great deal of
trouble the morning of that day, had since melted, and
thus there were no tell-tale footprints that a trap had
been set. Higgins, the sergeant and his three underlings,
entered the cottage by one of the windows to avoid any
warning which a muddied front doorstep might have
given.
Then began a tedious wait. The words on the blotting-
paper “To-morrow night” might mean anything during
the dark hours, which at that time of the year were be-
tween five o'clock in the evening till about seven the fol-
lowing morning. Higgins had assumed that the traffic on
the road outside would not cease until after ten (at which
hour the public-houses officially closed), thus he did not
arrange to meet until nine. When, however, the clock of
the near-by Town Hall struck midnight and still there
were no signs of an intruder, he had grave misgivings
that they had arrived on the scene too late.
Unfortunately, smoking was taboo, for the inspector
knew from experience how the smell of tobacco would
betray a man in hiding. The two bottles of beer brought
along by the thoughtful sergeant had long since been
emptied. Conversation was carried on in whispers, and
there was an uneasiness about the general atmosphere of
the place, which is the concomitant of the darkness and the
small hours in an empty house.
Higgins gravely wondered whether he had mis-read the
message or its purport. In his mind he felt perfectly con-
vinced that someone would turn up at the cottage during


182 THE MURDER ON THE BUS
the night. He felt absolutely certain that the message had
been left behind for the police to find. The sending of
the letter to the local newspaper tended to prove this, and
yet . . . Was he not crediting the “voice” with too much
ingenuity? Was it not possible that the main and domi-
nant intention of the message on the blotting-paper was
to get Inspector Higgins out of the way whilst some
other deviltry was carried out elsewhere? That was, in-
deed, a most comforting thought—I don't think! . . .
“Ssh!” Five men hissed the warning, and Higgins
smiled into the darkness. They had all heard it, and each
had assumed that the other had not. Yes. There it was
again. Someone, heavy-footed, was creeping through the
slush to the front door.
The instructions were definite. Unless the intruder,
whoever he was, made any attempt to bolt, he was to be
allowed the entire freedom of the house until he should
discover that he was not alone. The watchers were to en-
deavour to remain hidden until they received a signal
from the inspector. These instructions were occasioned
by a further alternative to the inspector's reasoning: that
the message might be genuine, and the note to the local
rag merely a coincidence—in which case the words “Meet
me” indicated that there would be more than one intruder
during the night.
There was the sound of fumbling at the front door,
which was pushed open. As soon as the man had closed
the front door he dropped all attempts at secrecy. Higgins
could imagine him stretching up with thankfulness that
he had effected an entry without arousing enquiry.
Through a crack in the door Inspector Higgins tried to
make out who the man was, but it was much too dark.
His progress up the stairs, however, was made perfectly
simple to follow by reason of the glow of an electric torch
with which the man guided his footsteps.
He entered the room opposite that in which the inspec-
tor was hidden, and walked without hesitation to the fire-


A MAN IS CAPTURED 183
place, where from his muttered imprecations it was
obvious that he had failed to find that for which he
searched.
Then, for some reason, the man seemed to scent a
trap, for with a snarl he released the button of his torch,
plunging the place into darkness, and charged for the
door. Higgins was taken by surprise, but dashed into the
darkness to intercept him.
Of the inevitable collision Inspector Higgins came off
second best. He was flung to the ground by the force of
the impact, but managed to grab a foot as the man was
dashing past. There was a crash which shook the cottage
to its very foundations, then utter pandemonium.
A tangled mass of threshing arms and legs, a howl as
a hand or foot came into violent contact with tender flesh,
and the language . . .
The intruder at last succumbed to force majeure. He
had put up a gallant fight, and even now it was as much
as the three constables could do to hold him still.
“Let's have a little light on the subject, Sergeant,”
gasped Higgins, sobbing for breath. .
Immediately the sergeant pressed the button of his
torch and directed the resultant ray of light upon the
prisoner's face.
It was “Samson” Sanderson.
“You’d never make a cat-burglar, Sanderson.”
“Go to hell!”
Of a sudden the man's belligerency faded. His shoul-
ders slumped, his chin sagged to his breast.
“So the swine squeaked, eh? Sent me here to retrieve
the uniform, whilst . . . God!” He uttered a short harsh
laugh, devoid of humour. “All right, Higgins I’ll go
along quietly. But I'll get even with the swine! I'll tell
all I know! No, I can't do that, I . . .”
Sanderson made one last despairing effort to shake
off his captors, and then was handcuffed to two of the
constables.


A MAN IS CAPTURED 185
know who fired the shot, but, on occasions, I'm a damned
good guesser.”
With which cryptic statement, Inspector Higgins, with
a nodded adieu, left the hospital.


INSPECTOR HIGGINS VISITS A SHOP 187
He realised, of course, that the money found had prob-
ably nothing to do with that taken from the safe just prior
to their flight, and that for the moment the gang was
undoubtedly in funds. Yet a time must surely come when
the liquid cash would run out, and the gang be obliged
to turn some of their possessions into currency. When
that time arrived, they must undoubtedly leave behind
some clue.
Higgins was fully convinced that it was only a matter
of time before “Soapy” and Jacob Heckenstein were
captured. The police were in possession of full descrip-
tions of these two and had photographs which had been
circulated. With regard to the leader, whom Higgins, for
want of a better appellation always referred to in his
thoughts as the “voice,” the Force was badly handicapped.
There was no photograph available—just a thumbprint.
This print was becoming indelibly impressed upon the
inspector's memory. He had been able to give a general
description as to the man's build, from the occasion when
he had met the man disguised as a policeman, yet such
general discription would fit eighty per cent. of the male
population, and, for all practical purposes, was useless.
The voice too, was hard to describe. Higgins was sure
that, were he ever to hear it again, he would recognise it.
Yet the man seemed also to be aware of this, and on the
one occasion Higgins had spoken to him and heard his
voice in reply, he had failed to recognise it owing to its dis-
guise.
Pretty hopeless—unless the depredations of the gang
broke out afresh.
Meanwhile there were other clues which called for in-
vestigation, and it was in response to one of these that
Inspector Higgins made a further journey to Birkenhead
Mansions.
Inspector Higgins had been giving the Hamper case a
good deal of thought, and he had come to definite con-
clusions. The Sunday night when Henry Hamper had


188 THE MURDER ON THE BUS
been brought home ostensibly drunk, but in reality (ac-
cording to the inspector's theory) dead, three men had
been involved—the policeman and the large man who had
carried Hamper up to his room, and the driver of the cab.
In the light of subsequent events it seemed reasonable
to suppose that the large man was the wounded Sander-
son and the driver of the cab Jacob Heckenstein. Who
then was the policeman? One of two people—either the
man Raymond who was shot shortly afterwards whilst
taking that mysterious ride on top of the bus, or the
“voice.” Considering that the latter had on a subsequent
occasion donned a policeman's uniform, it was quite on the
cards that on that Sunday evening it was the “voice”
again. It was, however, fairly easy of proof.
Mrs. Hick, the landlady of the upper portion of
Birkenhead Mansions, had become an important witness.
She alone had seen the pair of helpers on that Sunday
night.
Thus Inspector Higgins had come for this interview
armed with two photographs. One of Sanderson and the
other of the man Raymond. He was convinced that she
would recognise the large man. If she failed to recognise
the photograph of Raymond, then the man in policeman's
uniform on that night must have been the “voice.”
Therefore Mrs. Hick was the only person outside the
gang who had wittingly seen the mysterious leader. The
significance of this reasoning struck the inspector's con-
sciousness like a knock-out blow. Mrs. Hick . . . The
only person . . .
And the “voice” himself must be equally cognisant of
this startling fact.
Inspector Higgins stopped short—then set off again at
a run.
A single thumbprint was a slender clue—but the exist-
ence of a person who could recognise the leader without
recourse to that or the sound of his evil voice . . .
Only lately had there been any activity on the case since


INSPECTOR HIGGINS VISITS A SHOP 189
the closure of the inquest. The leader would know this
and . . .
Mrs. Hick was in grave peril.
Higgins ran to a telephone booth, and breathlessly
asked for the number of the police station which covered
the Birkenhead Mansions area. A moment later he was
connected with the superintendent.
A brief explanation, then once more Inspector Higgins
was on his way, but at a more leisured speed. The super-
intendent, should he act with despatch, would be at the
Mansions some twenty minutes before Higgins could ar-
rive.
When Higgins did arrive he was at least a couple of
hours too late. Mrs. Hick had gone.
Despondently he returned to the Yard to discover from
Sergeant Mercier that XX 57936 was owned, according
to the records, by one Thomas Hamper.
“Thomas? Are you sure?”
“Positive, sir.”
“That may mean nothing—or it may mean a great
deal.”
“Quite, sir,” responded Mercier, dutifully, but Higgins
was too pre-occupied to take any exception to this remark,
for which the sergeant was duly thankful.
The disappearance of Mrs. Hick might or might not
be connected with the case. Inspector Higgins felt that he
could well leave this portion of his investigations in the
capable mands of the superintendent of the local police
station. Yet, if it were purely coincidental, it was never-
theless a darned nuisance.
He wanted someone to identify Sanderson, or to con-
nect him in some way with Birkenhead Mansions. Ah,
yes! The hat. A visit to the Medhurst branch of Messrs.
Hildebrand and Sons' Gents Emporium seemed to be in-
dicated, and he might at the same time pay a visit to the


INSPECTOR HIGGINS VISITS A SHOP 191
out of people's way. Many had seen Sanderson, and
Soapy. In fact, the late Raymond had been identified by
the photograph recognised by the constable. Other mem-
bers of the village were questioned, as was the postman.
Nothing doing! Higgins came regretfully to the conclu-
sion that as far as being seen and recognised was con-
cerned, the “voice” did not exist.
“That's my customer all right, sir, the one who bought
that bowler hat from us. And now I've seen him, sir,
I’m reminded that he bought a cap from us fairly
recently.”
“He did, eh? Remember the date?”
“No, sir. But I can look up our stock records and let
you know.”
“Do. 'Phone me at Scotland Yard.”
“I’ve extracted the bullet, Inspector, and have got it
for you in my surgery.” It was the kindly doctor speaking
after he had forbidden Higgins to question Sanderson for
a few days.
“Thank you, Doctor. If you'll get it for me .
Three minutes later Inspector Higgins was inspecting
the bullet which reposed in his palm. He was consider-
ably shocked when it was given to him, for it seemed to
dispose fairly effectively of a pet theory he had formu-
lated.
The bullet was an exact replica of that extracted from
the foot of the man who was murdered on top of the X 87
omnibus.
->


CHAPTER XXV
IN WEHICH A YOUNG LADY IS ANXIOUS
A YOUNG lady to see you, sir. She's been before, and
she-er—seems to be in great distress, sir, if you'll
excuse my mentioning it.”
“Well. Who is she?”—shortly.
“A Miss Crawford.”
“Ah, yes. Show her up, please.”
Now what did Tommy's girl, Miss Jill Crawford,
want? And in great distress, eh? H'm. So Tommy had not
yet turned up. And Miss Jill would probably accuse him
of having had a hand in young Hamper's disappearance.
Ah, well! It was all in the day's work. Though why the
devil . . .
“Ah! Good morning, Miss Crawford. This is indeed a
pleasure!”
Inspector Higgins had been prepared for some evidence
of recent tears, and had conjured up a beaming smile
preparatory to an effort to cheer the girl up, but immedi-
ately he saw the child's haggard face and pinched ap-
pearance, the smile faded as though by magic, and a con-
cerned expression took its place. The girl looked positively
ill, and the inspector at once jumped up from his chair
and conducted Miss Crawford gently to the seat opposite
to his desk.
“And have we breakfasted this morning?” he enquired:
Dumbly she shook her head, and Higgins forthwith
pressed a bell upon his desk.
“Rolls, butter—and tea. Lots of tea.” He nodded his
dismissal to the messenger who had answered his bell, but
immediately ran to the door to call out: “And bring two
cups, please!”
I92


A YOUNG LADY IS ANXIOUS I93
“Not a word, my dear, until you've—er—fed.”
In a very short space of time the messenger returned
laden with a tray upon which was an enormous pot of
tea, two cups and saucers, some hot rolls, butter and
marmalade. Over his arm was a table napkin, which he
proceeded to spread on the inspector's desk in a space
which that officer had thoughtfully cleared.
He solemnly laid the table, then tactfully retired, his
whole demeanour advertising that he considered he had
a wonderfully scandalous tale with which to regale his
colleagues about “old Higgins.”
“Shall you pour out or shall I?” A question quietly
asked, which however served its purpose of setting the
girl at her ease.
There was a silence whilst Miss Crawford hungrily
devoured the food, and the inspector thoughtfully sipped
at his cup, covertly watching the girl. At last she thrust
the plate aside wth a sigh of satisfaction. Higgins took
up his cue.
“Well, my dear?”
Again a hint of tears, instantly suppressed. “I—I’ve
lost my Tommy.”
“That young man always seems to be getting lost, my
dear. But why come to me?”
She gazed at him in complete surprise. “I’ve nowhere
else to go,” she replied, naively.
“No friends?”
She shook her head, dumbly, and the inspector felt a
surge of pity. The poor kid seemed so forlorn.
“Now then, Miss Crawford. Let me ask you a few
questions. I must tell you, in the first place, that I haven't
the faintest idea where Tommy is, but if you answer my
questions perhaps I can form some sort of notion. Now
then”—he leaned forward impressively—“you haven't
yet told me how you came to look for young Tommy in
that empty house.”
“That's where I saw him last. It was about nine o'clock


I94 THE MURDER ON THE BUS
on the evening before we found him that we were walk-
ing past the house, when Tommy suddenly said he'd go
inside as he'd seen someone go in a few moments before.”
“Why did he want to go in?”
“Because he thought he recognised the man as some-
one connected with his father.”
“Did you see the man go in?”
“N—no, sir.”
“H'm. And you think Tommy was locked in that upper
room all night?”
“Of course. He said so"—with wide-eyed faith. “He
was out all night.”
“And you haven't seen him since we found him?”
“No-no, sir.”
“Where d'y' think he's got to?”
“I dunno, sir. He-he's been so funny since his father
died.”
“In what way?”
“He’s sworn all sorts of vengeance to the men he thinks
responsible. He told me that one had already got it in the
neck and that—”
The girl broke off, and sat with her mouth wide open
as though petrified, conscious that she might have said
too much. Then: “I-I don't think I'd better say any
more.”
“Why not, me dear? If he's really innocent of any
harm, the truth cannot hurt him.”
“I—I know, but . . .”
“Do I look the sort of man who'd hound an innocent
chap to prison?” Inspector Higgins spread out his hands
in a gesture of appeal and the girl surveyed him gravely.
“No-no, you don't. You've a nice, kind face.”
Inspector Higgins blushed to the roots of his hair, not
so much at the compliment, as at the choice of words. On
a previous occasion similar words had been used in con-
nection with the inspector's face. It was some few years


A YOUNG LADY IS ANXIOUS I95
back, and he had been interrogating a criminal, and had
made a similar appeal, which had been unsuccessful. As
a matter of fact, the interview had terminated on a some-
what strained note, for the criminal had finished with:
“Yus. You've a nice kind face—I don't think.” Since
then, the phrase had been anathema to him.
“Well, then. What are you afraid of?”
The girl remained silent.
“Ah, I see now! You're not too sure that he is innocent,
eh? H'm. That's a nuisance. So he said that one of the
men responsible for his father's death had already got
it in the neck?”—ruminatively.
“Y—yes, sir.”
“I—er—suppose he meant the man on top of the bus.
He certainly got it—literally—in the neck.”
“I suppose so—n-no, no, no! He didn't mean him.”
“How d'y' know?”
“He only used the usual phrase. “Got it in the neck'
. . meaning . . . meaning . . .”
“Oh, I know what its colloquial meaning is, all right,
Miss, but when did he tell you this?”
“Why, when—when . . .”
“When you saw him last, eh?”
“Yes”—eagerly.
“So the last time you saw him, he told you that one
of them had—er—got it in the neck, eh?”
“That's right, sir.”
“And you've seen nothing of young Tommy since you
left him with me after he had hurt his arm in that empty
house?”
“That's so, sir.”
“You're telling me the truth, I hope, Miss Crawford?”
“Of course. I'll swear it, if you like”—head thrust
back, in an attitude of high indignation. Higgins stared at
the girl for a moment, then shook his head from side to
side.


196 THE MURDER ON THE BUS
“I shouldn't do that,” he commented, dryly.
“I’m quite prepared to, if it's necessary. You said your-
self just now that the truth harmed no one.”
“Listen, my dear,” said the inspector, quietly. “One of
the men whom Tommy thinks—rightly or wrongly—re-
sponsible for his father's death, was the man called Ray-
mond, who was shot whilst on top of the bus.”
“My Tommy didn't do that—he told me Raymond was
dead—but . . .”
“Quite!” Inspector Higgins's voice was deadly serious.
“And how did he know?”
“I dunno, sir. Read it in the papers—or something.”
“You said just now that you hadn't seen Tommy since
we found him in that house. I know that when we found
him I left you together for a few odd moments, when
he might have told you a few things, but he didn't tell
you about Raymond then.”
The girl considered this for a moment, then seemed to
come to a decision.
“That's when he told me.”
“Don’t be a damned idiot.”
The girl was badly shocked, and stared at the inspector
with frightened eyes.
“It must have been then—f-for I haven't seen . . .
She stopped, her eyes wide-opened as she realised the im-
port of her denial, then with a pathetic moan she slipped
off the chair and sank to the floor.
>>
“Gosh! I hope the papers never get hold of this,” re-
flected Higgins, grimly, as the matron of the sick-bay,
with a baneful look in his direction, gently led the girl
away.
He wished to goodness that he had never turned up at
the Yard that morning, for then the girl would not have
seen him, but there was such a lot of general routine busi-
ness accumulated since his absence on the case, that he


A YOUNG LADY IS ANXIOUS 197
had thought it expedient to give up a morning in an effort
to wipe off some of the arrears . . . and this was the
result!
And now to separate the wheat from the chaff, the
sheep from the goats, the truth from the lies. If Jill Craw-
ford persisted in her story that young Hamper.had told
her of the death of Raymond whilst in that room in the
attic of 79, Horton Road, then she endangered his life
and liberty, if she didn't succeed in placing a rope round
his neck. For Hamper, under his own statement, had
spent thirty hours in that room, and during that thirty
hours Raymond had been shot, possibly from the very
house in which Hamper was found. Then Higgins re-
membered the finding of the key of the room of the area,
and his suspicions that Hamper himself might have
thrown it there from the skylight of the attic.
Was it possible that after all Raymond had been shot
by young Hamper? Had the boy's revenge started with
that crime? Yet why stay in the house afterwards? Had
he returned for something—some clue or other—which
he hoped to redeem? Was the arrival of the inspector
at the house so unexpected and inopportune that the boy
had to bolt to the attic, and, once there, conceived the idea
of locking the door on the inside and throwing the key
out of the skylight in order to bolster up his story that
he had been locked in the room all the day? Was he quick-
witted enough for such an action?
The girl's movements since she had called at Scotland
Yard to give Higgins his change from the pound he had
given her for taxi-fare were known.
Higgins groaned. She couldn't have seen Tommy since!
There was one ray of light. She might have seen the boy
during the night after he had been sent home, and before
the two constables turned up in the morning to discover
that he had gone. He remembered that Constable Jones,
whom he had first instructed to shadow the girl after she


CHAPTER XXVI
IN WEIICH A GENTLEMAN VISITS SCOTLAND YARD
NSPECTOR HIGGINS initialled the last of the ac-
cumulated correspondence, and with a sigh of thankful-
ness settled himself more comfortably in his chair. At last
he was free once more to give the case his undivided atten-
tion. He opened a drawer of his desk, and extracted there-
from the sundry photographs of the thumbprint of the
leader of the gang. He studied it with malevolent gaze—it
was, indeed, becoming indelibly impressed upon his mem-
ory. Hitherto, to him, all fingerprints looked alike (for
such matters were outside his department), but he really
felt that were he to see this print again he would immedi-
ately recognise it.
From the various copies of the print obtained, a special
photograph had been built up by the Yard experts, which
gave a complete print as it should appear if the “voice”
voluntarily gave it.
This, then, was the only clue as to the man's identity.
The inspector ordered several copies of the print to be
made, and for these copies to be circulated to the various
capitals of the world, in the forlorn hope that further in-
formation might thereby be forthcoming.
There was a timid knock at his door, and Higgins re-
placed the prints in the drawer before giving any invita-
tion to enter.
“A gentleman to see you, sir.”
“What's he want?”
“Dunno, sir. He says it's something to do with the Ray-
mond murder, sir, so I thought you would like to see
him.”
I99


2OO THE MURDER ON THE BUS
“What's he like?”
The man considered for a moment before replying, then:
“Er—medium sized, sir. Wearing a trilby hat—a-a-
brown hat, sir. And—overcoat. Ordinary sort of suit, sir.
In—fact, sir, he's an ordinary sort of looking cove al-
together, sir.”
“A very helpful description.” A pause. “What's his
voice like?”
“’Usky, sir. 'Usky.”
“Oh, it is, is it? H'm. All right. Show him up, but—er
—don't leave us alone until I give you leave. Under-
stand?”
“Yessir.”
Inspector Higgins once more opened a drawer of his
desk, but this time he pulled out a wicked-looking re-
volver, which he examined carefully before he placed it in
his jacket pocket. This might or might not be the “voice”
(whom the inspector credited with unlimited nerve) but
in any case Higgins was taking no chances.
A moment later the man was shown into the room,
whilst the messenger stood stolidly by near the door. One
look was sufficient. The man was weak-chinned, nervous
and bordering upon mental collapse. Higgins waved him
to a seat, then turned to the messenger.
“All right.”
The man retired, leaving the newcomer seated nerv-
ously upon the very edge of his chair, twiddling his trilby
hat and gazing abstractedly all round the room—anywhere
save at the inspector's face.
“Well, sir?”
The man gave a start at being addressed, and licked his
lips in a harassed manner.
“Er—er—are you in charge of the bus murder, sir?”
The words came with a rush, the hoarseness of the voice
being due to emotion.
“Yes. Higgins is my name—Inspector. What do you
want?”—sternly, for the inspector had some small expe-


A GENTLEMAN VISITS SCOTLAND YARD 20I
rience in dealing with such characters. The man swallowed,
then made a valiant effort to pull himself together.
“I—I understand that—er—you have been looking for
me, sir.”
Higgins frowned, and stared anew at the man. He
couldn't place him. “Who are you?” he asked abruptly.
The man felt in his pocket and produced a card which he
handed to the inspector.
HENRY ADAMS,
Mount Helen,
Hampstead.
“Well, Mr. Adams, if you'll kindly come to the
point . . .”
“I—I was on the bus that night the man was mur-
dered.” The words came with a rush, and Inspector Hig-
gins drew a breath of astonishment. So this was the
second fare! This was the man whom the conductor
thought looked either frightened or angry. Angry? Hig-
gins could have laughed ! Yet he had turned up volun-
tarily. True, numberless enquiries had been made without
result, yet the fact that he was here now, of his own voli-
tion, was a point in his favour.
“I see, Mr. Adams. So you were the gentleman who
got on the bus at the Fox and Hounds, Horton, and,
after going to the top deck, almost immediately retraced
your steps and alighted from the bus.”
“That's right, sir.”
“Well, of course, you know, I’m bound to warn you to
think well before making any statement to us, in case such
statement should redound to your own—er—confusion.
In other words—be careful what you say as we may have
to take action against you.” -
“Oh, dear! I sincerely hope you won't. I’ve come to you
because the man's dead—and—and—I'm damned glad he
is.” The last words were uttered with such vindictiveness


2O2 THE MURDER ON THE BUS
that Higgins revised his opinion as to the possibility of
him having been angry on leaving the bus. He tried to
help the man out.
“Look here, Mr. Adams. I think I can see your diffi-
culty. You know something which, were the man alive,
you would hesitate to say, but that now he's dead you
would like to tell us.”
“That's right, sir, but . . .”
“What's your trouble?”
“Well—er . . .”—hesitant, undecided.
“Ah! Will it help you if I say that we know the man to
have been a blackmailer?” Not exactly the truth, perhaps,
but—
“I see. Well, sir, I do know something of the man,
much to my sorrow, but I can only tell you if you promise
me that you'll say nothing about my—er—indiscre-
tion.”
“My dear Mr. Adams,” said Higgins, patiently, “I can
promise nothing. If your indiscretion, as you term it, is
criminal—then you'll have to take your chance; and, if
you'll excuse my saying so, that chance you've already
taken by calling at Scotland Yard. If it's a moral—er—
indiscretion—then it's nothing to do with us. That's a
question between you and your conscience.”
“It's not criminal, I assure you, but—you see—my
wife . . .”
“Don’t worry about that, sir. Provided it's nothing to
do with the case, you've nothing to fear from us.”
“Very well then, I must take your word for it. I saw the
man Raymond that night, and paid him one hundred
pounds in notes.”
“Why ?”
“To keep him quiet about something”—ashamedly.
“Why not tell me all about it, Mr. Adams? Really,
though I say it meself, I'm the soul of discretion. Besides,
it'll do you good to get it off your chest.”
The story was quickly told. Mr. Adams had, after sev-


A GENTLEMAN VISITS SCOTLAND YARD 203
eral years of married life, gone off the rails a bit. Nothing
unmoral, but he had written some foolish letters to a lady
in which he posed as a bachelor. These had got into the
hands of the gang, and Mr. Adams had been paying ever
since for silence. Higgins gathered that Mrs. Adams was
a bit of a tartar, and heartily sympathised with the unfor-
tunate victim. Adams was pestered with demands, always
for amounts which he could just about afford to pay,
which proved the extent of the gang's knowledge of its
victim's affairs. Each demand was accompanied with def-
inite instructions as to how payment should be made.
On the occasion in question, Adams was told to catch
the last bus on the X 87 route at the Fox and Goose. If
there was a man on the top deck with a rose in his button-
hole he was to leave the hundred pounds on the seat in
front and withdraw. This he did.
“Why the blazes didn't you come to us in the first
place?” -
The man stared ashamedly at the floor, but made n
reply. Higgins guessed the reason. Then:
“Did you recognise the man?”
“No. I hadn't seen him before. Previously I’ve had to
send the money by registered post. Thank God it's all over
now !”
“Why ?”
“The man's dead, isn't he?”
“That's nothing”—brutally. “There were half a dozen
in the gang.”
“D-do you think they'll be after me again?”
“Sure to”—cheerfully. “Then you must communicate
with me, and we'll nab him. Here, I say! Pull yourself to-
gether!” Higgins jumped from his seat in alarm, for the
fact that his troubles had not closed with Raymond's death
seemed to be almost too much for the man. He paled, and
gripped the arms of his chair. The inspector rang a bell on
his desk. . . .


CHAPTER XXVII
IN WEIICH A SEARCH IS MADE
66A LETTER for you, sir. Just come.”
“Thanks.” Higgins took the proffered missive,
absent-mindedly slit the envelope, and withdrew a sheet of
paper.
— Hospital.
November 3rd, 19—.
Dear Mr. Higgins,
My patient, Sanderson, is now much recovered, and
this morning he expressed a wish to see you. I do not
forbid an interview, but wish to reiterate the fact that he
is still my patient.
Sincerely yours,
Harold English
Resident Surgeon.
Detective Inspector Cuthbert Higgins,
Scotland Yard, S.W.I.
“I wonder,” muttered Higgins. “I wonder.”
Inspector Higgins did not take immediate advantage of
the doctor's offer. Whatever Sanderson would have to say
would keep, for he was pretty certain that the man, now
on the road to recovery, would not say anything likely to
incriminate himself. Had he spoken when he was first cap-
tured, when the first rage at his betrayal was guiding his
tongue, something useful might have been given away, but
now . . . No. Sanderson was too wily a bird to cut off
his beak to spite his face. Yet Higgins must be careful not
to give him too much time to concoct his story and elab-
206


A SEARCH IS MADE 2O7
orate any details thereof. Whatever Sanderson said must
be gone into, and, if possible, corroborated from an outside
SOL11 ce.
Once more Inspector Higgins was back at 79, Horton
Road, the house condemned by the authorities as unfit for
human habitation, and in which a uniformed policeman
had been living since Higgins had given instructions for
a guard to be set on the place.
He had promised himself at the time that he would go
over this house with a fine toothcomb, but he had dele-
gated this duty to others, and had not yet had the time to
go over the place himself.
After his reasoning a short while back that either
Thomas Hamper or the mysterious “voice” had called at
the house to redeem some clue previously left behind, he
had felt compelled to find the time thoroughly to search the
place himself.
The constable on duty at the time of the inspector's
return had seemed half asleep, but had become consider-
ably agitated on learning the identity of his visitor.
The front door was still screwed into position, and the
constable had made himself comfortable in the room out-
side the door of which Higgins, on his first visit, had
tripped over the wooden ball.
The inspector's first discovery was a half-consumed
bottle of beer, for which the constable was at a complete
loss to account. This was most unlucky, for the inspector,
with an inward chuckle, decided that, there being no ap-
parent owner he might as well confiscate it—and did so,
internally. The constable watched him, in silence, sympa-
thetically licking his lips.
“I had a thirst, Constable, which I wouldn't have sold
for a quid,” said Higgins. “Otherwise I'd have offered
you some.”
“I’m a tee-totaller, sir,” responded the man, unctuously.
Inspector Higgins raised his eyes to Heaven, but said


208 THE MURDER ON THE BUS
nothing. He turned his mind to more serious matters.
Where was the most likely place to find that mysterious
clue which either Thomas Hamper or the “voice” had left
behind?
Let's take Tommy first. If he were the culprit, then the
clue might be anywhere in the house, from the basement
upwards, for, if his reasoning were correct, then Tommy
had bolted to the attic without redeeming the clue; or,
alternatively, if he had done so, then he must have re-
hidden it before taking flight to the attic. In that case,
why hadn't the previous searchers found it? To find a
secure hiding-place whilst in the hurry of desperation was
seemingly impossible, yet Tommy must have done so.
And what about the other? It was fairly obvious that
the “voice” had not secured the clue prior to the time that
the inspector had heard him mounting the stairs, because
there would have been no need for him to ascend any
higher after finding that for which he had returned. There-
fore the clue, whatever it was, must have been left on or
above the first floor. Was it possible that, before the ar-
rival of the two constables, and after he had turned the
handle of the door of the room in which the inspector was
hiding, that the “voice” had recovered the clue?
And why had he started to enter that front room?
Gosh! That must have been the very room in which the
clue was hidden!
“I should have thought of that before,” muttered Hig-
gins, administering a mental reprimand to himself.
“Pardon, sir?”
“Merely expressing my thoughts aloud, Constable.”
Inspector Higgins ran up the rickety stairs as quickly
as their dilapidation would allow, after instructing the
constable to remain below. He entered the room and once
more gazed around it.
Again he decided that the man Raymond could easily
have been shot from the window. Even as he looked
through its broken panes a bus numbered X 87 passed


2IO THE MURDER ON THE BUS
soot and the constable precipitately retired, spluttering.
“So you didn't look, eh?” remarked Higgins as he
surveyed the heap of soot.
“I—I thought I did, sir.”
“H'm. Well, it doesn't matter. There's nothing there.”
For it was fairily obvious that, were anything to have
been hidden up the chimney, there must have been signs
of fallen soot when he had first inspected the room, and
Higgins had no such recollection.
“You had the floor-boards up, I see.”
“Yessir. They weren't much trouble. The whole place
seems to be tumbling to pieces.”
“What about the walls?”
Inspector Higgins walked round the room, carefully
tapping the walls, listening for some tell-tale sound which
would reveal some hidden recess. He had a half-hope of
finding a secret cupboard—the house was old enough for
such a phenomenon at all events!
Then he turned the table over on its side, and looked
underneath the top, in the forlorn hope that the simplest
of hiding-places might have been overlooked. Again with-
out result.
Higgins retired into the centre of the room, and from
there slowly surveyed the floor, ceiling and walls of the
room. Bare and battered. Aged and decayed. Even the
skirting-boards were coming away from the walls.
The skirting-boards.
He walked round the room, tugging at each separate
portion. At last a piece about a yard long readily came
away in his hands.
In the space behind was a small rifle.
Higgins inserted his hand, whilst the constable stared
with the blankest of expressions on his countenance.
It was a sports rifle, the bore showing unmistakable
signs that it had not been cleaned since the last shot had
been fired. And there were no fingerprints. Higgins dusted


A SEARCH IS MADE 2II
the entire weapon with fine powder, but with no result.
After its use, it had obviously been rubbed over with an
oily rag. A further search behind the skirting-board re-
vealed the oily rag, and a small oil-can.
“Which accounts for the basement door being oiled.”
“Yessir,” responded the constable dutifully, although
he had not the faintest idea of what the inspector was
talking, and although Higgins had addressed the remark
more to himself than to the other.
“Now then, Constable. How did you come to miss
this?”
“I—I could have sworn I looked behind the floor-
edging, sir. I can't think how it could have escaped my
notice, sir.”
“Well anyhow—it did!”—dryly.
“Unless, sir, it was put there after we searched.”
Inspector Higgins was silent for a moment. He haz-
arded a guess that this was merely said to excuse, yet it
had its possibilities.
“Someone's been on guard here all the time?”
“Yessir.”
“Then how could this have been put there without
your knowledge? It's bulky to hide, in any case. That's
why it was left here. Guns like this take some concealing,
Constable.”
“Yessir.”
The man's ready acquiescence to his every suggestion
was getting on the inspector's nerves, and his parrot-like
“Yessir” did not tend to dam the flood of the inspector's
rising wrath.
“Look here, Constable. You've told me quite enough
lies for the present. Did you, or did you not look behind
that skirting-board?”
“I—I had the floor-boards up, sir,” the man hedged,
almost in despair.
“Damnation, man! Gimme a straight answer!”


2I2 THE MURDER ON THE BUS
“I—I-er—thought »
“Did you or did you not?” shouted Higgins.
“N-no, sir.”
“Thank you. You may go.”


CHAPTER XXVIII
IN WEHICH SANDERSON OFFERS AN EXPLANATION
HE inspector's temper was still somewhat ruffled
when he left the house shortly afterwards for Scot-
land Yard. He had the gun with him, but for the moment
he was mostly concerned with the problem of when rather
than how it reached its hiding-place. Was the constable's
suggestion that it had been placed there since the search
to be discarded because it was highly improbable?
When the “voice” had escaped from the condemned
house, upon being discovered by Constables Goldfinch and
Smart, he had left by a window. Was it not possible that
he had returned by the same route unbeknown to the
constable left on guard? Just possible, perhaps. But why
return with the gun? At the best it would greatly add to
the hazardous mode of entry adopted, and what could be
the reason? It seemed contradictory, somehow. Hitherto
the inspector had been arguing within himself that the
“voice” had returned to recover some incriminating clue
left behind when the murder was committed; now he
wanted to argue that the man returned to the scene of the
crime in order to leave an incriminating weapon behind
Against reason! And the inspector was not certain that this
house actually was the scene of the crime.
Unless—unless there was something behind it all which
at the moment was obscure. . . .
Leaving the weapon at Scotland Yard for the urgent
attention of the gun expert, Inspector Higgins set out
for the hospital, inwardly wondering what Sanderson
would have to say, and whether he would be able to be-
lieve the man when he had said it.
213


216 THE MURDER ON THE BUS
“Please let me finish, Higgins. Hamper did commit
suicide—but not at Bulstroade's Buildings.”
Ah! This was different!
“Tell it in your own way, Sanderson.”
“I intend to”—with veiled insolence. “Hamper killed
himself at our big house at Medhurst. He did it by means
of a piece of rubber tubing attached to a gas-bracket. Ray-
mond and Mapell found him on the Sunday morning. He
was stone-dead. We all got in an awful panic about it.
You see”—with a wry smile—“we didn't want to invite
police enquiries at Medhurst. We had a pretty hectic ten
minutes after we discovered Hamper's body, I can tell
you. We'd have to report it, or dispose of the body some-
how. We got ready to bolt, when Mapell had a brain-wave.
We knew that Hamper had a room at Bulstroade's Build-
ings, and that the gas was laid on there. If we could only
get the body into that room we might be able to fake mat-
ters so that it would look as if he had actually committed
suicide there. No harm in that, was there? Under the
circs?”
Inspector Higgins did not answer, but motioned the
other to proceed.
“We got out the car xx
“Not a taxi P”
“No. We got out the car, and Mapell and I lifted
Hamper's body into it. Mapell giving his celebrated im-
personation of a more humble member of your profession,
my dear Inspector—”
“Quite.”
“Heckenstein drove us to the Buildings, and the jour-
ney from the big house passed uneventfully. Hamper's
landlady let us in, and we carted him up to his room.”
“You don't happen to know where the landlady is now,
I suppose?” queried Higgins, casually.
“Haven't the faintest. But to resume. We got the er—
deceased into his room and lit the gas. Then we packed


22O THE MURDER ON THE BUS
given the case his undivided attention. That mistake
belonged to Constable Summers, who had first had charge
of the police investigations. Anyhow, this would be a
lesson to Higgins. He would consider twice before he sent
an inexperienced officer alone on a case, however simple
it seemed at first blush.
Now this statement.
So Henry Hamper had committed suicide after all!
But had he? Was Sanderson telling the truth? Reason
suggested the answer to be in the affirmative. It was such
a rational explanation.
Higgins could well understand the gang's anxiety to
avoid close contact with the police. If Hamper had really
committed suicide in the big house it must have been a
tremendous shock to the other inmates—not so much at
his death, for they were a pretty tough crowd, but at the
jeopardy in which the situation placed them. Here was
a body. The explanation was reasonable. The police would
investigate the death, and no one would be blamed. Yet—
the very presence of the police was a source of danger
to every inmate of that big house. Anyone there might
have been recognised—enguiries must follow—it might
have led to them all being recognised—the police would
ask awkward questions—then clink for the lot! Yes. The
body was a problem which they almost succeeded in solv-
ing. If the gang hadn't been in such a panic they might
have been entirely successful. If
Yet, from what he had learned of him, the man Mapell
did not seem to be one easily upset. Not at all the man
likely to lose his head in a crisis. How was it then he had
forgotten to take Hamper's hat with him? Surely it was
most unlikely that a man who had thought out the entire
scheme would have forgotten the hat. True, he might
have argued, as the inspector had done, that the loss of a
drunken man's hat was understandable, yet . . .
Sanderson himself was probably more easily frightened.
Was it not possible that the omission of the hat had been


A BURGLARY IS COMMITTED 22I
deliberate? Mapell himself had been in the policeman's
garb, ostensibly to add verisimilitude to their actions and
frighten away undue civilian curiosity, yet he was thus
prevented from leaving behind his own headgear. It had
to be Sanderson's. Even Sanderson himself could see the
reasonableness of this. Perhaps Mapell intended to get
Sanderson into the clutches of the law. Although he had
failed then, he had succeeded later in doing so. First Ham-
per, then Raymond (whether or not Mapell himself was
responsible for this), now Sanderson. Next Heckenstein
and Soapy. Then Mapell would be free and unfettered
with associates who knew too much!
But to return to the death of Henry Hamper. Was
Higgins justified in disturbing the coroner's verdict—
“Suicide whilst of unsound mind”? According to Sander-
son the “Suicide” part of it was quite in order, but there
was, as yet, no definite evidence to show the state of the
mind. The inspector decided, after mature consideration,
that for the moment he would say nothing. Time enough
for that when Sanderson's story had been proved—or
disproved. He was not entirely satisfied that the large man
had given a true version of the facts of Hamper's death.
When Inspector Higgins arrived at Scotland Yard he
found amongst his pile of accumulated letters, one which
had a bearing upon the matter in hand. It was from an
official of the London Stock Exchange.
Dear Sir, -
Following upon your letter asking for information
with regard to certain bonds, a list of numbers of which
you enclosed at the time: if you will send a duly authorised
representative and ask for the undersigned at 79b, Throg-
morton Road, he will be pleased to place at your disposal
some further information which has just come to hand,
Yours faithfully,
Frank Wrigley.
To Detective-Inspector C. Higgins, C.I.D.


222 THE MURDER ON THE BUS
The inspector re-read the letter and immediately de-
cided that he, himself, would be his “duly authorised
representative.” He set out for Throgmorton Road forth-
with, and within half an hour was ensconced with Mr.
Wrigley at number 79b.
“I take it, Inspector, that there is no question of theft
with regard to these bonds—I mean, that the bonds them-
selves have never been stolen.”
“To my knowledge—no.”
Mr. Wrigley spread out his hands, and raised his eye-
brows in a mute suggestion of interrogation.
“Then you see our difficulty, I am sure. The bonds
presumably were bought for cash?”
Inspector Higgins nodded. With all due respect he
hoped that Mr. Wrigley would soon come to the point.
“That being so, and the question of theft being
ruled out, then the bonds are good delivery to a subsequent
purchaser. I’m sure our police authorities would not wish
us to pass judgment upon the morals of our clients before
we could do business. It would be rather a handicap”—
with a grave smile.
“Quite.”
“Nevertheless, without necessarily betraying any of
our clients' secrets, we are always prepared to render help
to the authorities, if perchance it lies in our power.”
“And such occasion has arisen, Mr. Wrigley?”
“Yes. Dominion 5 per cent. Bearer Bonds. Numbered
311 1898 to 311 1907. Fifty pounds each. Ten of them.
Sent to a member of the Stock Exchange for disposal.
Sold at hundred and one. Net proceeds about five hundred
pounds. Instructions to send same in pound notes to an
address at Poplar.”
“Aha!” The meat at last. “And the address?”
“I, Horse Street, Poplar.”
“Gosh. When are the brokers going to forward the
money?”
“It's gone already.”


224 THE MURDER ON THE BUS
the shop gazing at the stock, and once again met the
flimsy-looking packet containing four sheets of notepaper,
four envelopes and a sheet of blotting-paper, with the
superscription of: Value! Value!! VALUE!!! He would
have been more excited over his discovery had he not
learned that such an envelope could be purchased at nearly
every shop in London.
It was the most dreary and uneventful day Higgins
ever remembered spending. He was bored to distraction,
and it was with a sigh of thankfulness that he helped the
other put up the shutters at seven o'clock.
He decided to spend the morning there on the off-
chance that someone would turn up to claim the package
of notes, and that after that he would leave a subordinate
to carry on. He would not have spent so much time at
the stationer's as he had, only he felt convinced that the
gang must be running short of money, and a member
might turn up at any moment. He hoped it would be
Mapell, not Heckenstein or Soapy.
Inspector Higgins certainly visited number one, Horse
Street, Poplar, the following morning, but at a much
earlier hour than he expected, for it was just six o'clock
when he received telephonic intimation that the shop had
been broken into during the night, and the packet of notes
stolen. Nothing else had been touched, and it was open to
question whether or not anything else in the shop had been
worthy of the burglar's attention. At any rate, he had
touched nothing.
It was the proprietor who had given the alarm. He
lived over the shop and had been disturbed about five
o'clock by sounds in the shop below. He frankly admitted
that he was badly frightened and had made no attempt
to give the alarm until the sounds below had ceased. Then
he had informed the policeman on his beat, who, in turn,
had communicated with his station, and from thence the


A BURGLARY IS COMMITTED 225
information had been passed to Scotland Yard and to
Inspector Higgins.
Such fingerprints as had been left behind belonged to
Jacob Heckenstein.
This man was known to be an associate of Mapell.
Here was a problem. Could a man be arrested for stealing
his own property? Higgins gave it up. He'd know what
to do if ever he laid hands on either Heckenstein or
Mapell!


CHAPTER XXX
IN WEHICH A LETTER IS FOUND
HERE was one redeeming feature about the bur-
glary at the stationer's. It afforded a clue as to the
whereabouts of the gang. Obviously the remaining mem-
bers must be in London, and one, at least, had during the
last few hours been in Poplar. It seemed as if Mapell must
have been pressed for money to sell the bonds in the first
place, yet why had not Heckenstein called for the package
in a straightforward manner? To the inspector's own ex-
perience it was obvious that the letters and the like were
handed over without question, provided the fee was paid.
It was not to be thought of that the robbery was carried
out merely to avoid payment of the shilling fee. That,
of course, was ridiculous. Yet why hadn't Heckenstein
come along and paid his shilling to recover the notes?
Obviously because he was aware of the inspector's pres-
ence during the course of the previous day. And who
had told him? Or how had he found out without coming
into the shop. Of course, someone might have come into
the shop first to scout round, merely buying a ball of
string or something to make an excuse for entering, yet
. . . Had Heckenstein been warned, either by the pro-
prietor or by the weary-looking assistant?
Inspector Higgins decided then and there to look very
closely into the bona fides of this pair.
He also made another decision. Perhaps Heckenstein
had not yet turned over the money to Mapell, in which
case it was advisable that he should not do so. For Mapell
without money would be much more easily caught than a
Mapell with a further five hundred pounds in his pocket.
226


A LETTER IS FOUND 227
Inspector Higgins issued the necessary instructions.
Then followed swiftly and silently a drive of the vari-
ous underground criminal haunts known to the Poplar
police. Many small fish were caught in the net, but of
Mapell, Heckenstein or even Soapy, there was no sign.
Somewhat dispiritedly Higgins returned home, but
on his arrival at Scotland Yard the following morning,
his drooping spirits were revived by receipt of a letter
from New York in response to his letter enclosing a
photograph of Mapell's thumbprint.
Not only had the print been traced, but the American
police had been able to forward a copy of the man's photo-
graph. The inspector's elation became somewhat subdued
when he realised that the photograph was at least twenty
years old. Still, it was better than nothing.
The “voice” now had, not only a name, but an old
likeness.
The New York police, however, could not give much
information about Mapell, for they had seen nothing of
him for the twenty years subsequent to the photograph,
and such information as they could supply was two dec-
ades out of date. Yet even then, Mapell had been mixed
up with a gang of blackmailers. The shoemaker sticks
to his last!
Armed with this photograph, Inspector Higgins called
upon Jill Crawford, who, although entirely unaware of
the fact, was kept under close police surveillance and
protection.
“Not a bit like him, sir. He's a lot older than that.”
“I know, my dear, I know,” persisted Higgins patiently.
“But this is as he was twenty years ago.”
“I’m sorry, but—I'll say it is him if you like.”
“Thanks very much”—faintly sarcastic. “But now about
young Hamper. Seen him lately?”
“No.”
“You don't seem as worried as you did some time ago.
You know where he is?”


228 THE MURDER ON THE BUS
“No.”
“H'm. Well, I'm going to have a look at his lodg-
ings. You can come along if you like—and—er—see fair
play.”
“All right. I'll come along.”
Fetter Street, Camberwell, had been visited by Con-
stable Summers when he had originally called there to
break the news to young Hamper of his father's death.
Since then the house had been watched by the police
after Hamper's disappearance in the hope that the young
man would be tempted to return, but so far without suc-
cess. The boy's actual rooms, however, had not been dis-
turbed, but Higgins had at last decided that the young
man's activities must be closely enquired into. Hamper
might be concerned with the death of Raymond, and thus
duty had overcome disinclination to meddle with the lad's
affairs.
Higgins's invitation to Jill Crawford to accompany
him was the result of selfish motives. In the first place, it
was almost certain that Hamper's landlady had seen Jill,
in which case the inspector's investigation might be as-
sisted by that good lady on the strength of his apparent
friendship with Miss Crawford. In the second place, Hig-
gins was convinced by this time that Jill was aware of the
whereabouts of young Hamper and he hoped to trap her
into such an admission.
The landlady was effusive in her welcome of Jill, and
the inspector had a moment of self-congratulation. Then
began the serious business of a search of the lad's room.
Higgins did not know what he expected to find. He was
merely hoping for some clue as to where Hamper was
in hiding. He fully expected Jill Crawford to betray the
boy by some involuntary exclamation or similar means,
yet he was not prepared for the cry she emitted when, from
behind a drawer, he extracted a letter with a recent post-
mark.
“Give that to me”—peremptorily.


A LETTER IS FOUND 229
“My dear young lady!”—in mild reproof from the
inspector.
With calm deliberation Higgins studied the handwriting
upon the envelope, which was addressed to Mr. Tommy
Hamper, and had been re-addressed from various lodging-
places until it had reached Fetter Street, Camberwell.
There was a scurry of feet and the next moment the
letter was torn from his grasp. The ensuing struggle (if
so it can be termed) was most unseemly, yet quite five
seconds elapsed before the inspector once more held the
letter in his hand.
“A most unladylike proceeding, Miss Crawford,” he
remarked, gravely.
“Give it to me! Give it to me! It's mine, I tell you!
Mine!” Jill Crawford was on the verge of tears, her voice
rising in a shrill crescendo.
“What do you mean, my dear? Is it from you to
Tommy?”
The girl made no reply, merely nodding affirmatively.
“In that case . . .” Higgins bowed, extending the let-
ter towards her between the thumb and the forefinger of
his right hand. The girl said nothing for a moment, then
she slowly advanced until she could almost touch the let-
ter. She glanced up into the inspector's eyes, then, ignor-
ing the letter, flung herself into a chair and burst into
tears.
“I thought as much,” muttered Higgins to himself,
smilingly, thrusting the envelope into his jacket pocket.
He stepped towards the girl and placed a paternal hand
upon her heaving shoulder.
“Never mind, my dear. You did your best.”
Then he walked to the door and called the housekeeper,
who a moment later came bustling in with outraged de-
meanour.
To the sounds of endearment and reproach from the
region of the chair, Inspector Higgins withdrew the letter
from its envelope. Immediately he gave a start of sur-


A LETTER IS FOUND 231
be a sneak. From the little you know of me at least you
are aware that telling tales has never been a failing of mine.
In any case I cannot say anything about the others without
involving myself; and self-preservation—you know the
rest!
I try to bolster up my courage with alchohol. It is not
a success. Already I have been threatened by my landlady
here that a repetition of insobriety will lead to my eviction.
She is new to this place. In the old days the gang used to
meet at this address, and when I decided to cut myself
adrift I came to Bulstroade's Buildings. I doubt whether
Mapell with all his cunning would think of looking for
me here—still, you never can tell. I’ve dodged them so far,
but I feel they'll get me in the end. I would go to the po-
lice for protection, but what's the good? My record is
bad—and I’m no informer. If I should die a violent death
3you can guess who'll be responsible. The man Raymond is
a beast, but I believe Mapell to be worse. I’m mortally
afraid of them both. I don't think you know either of them.
You will, however, remember Sanderson. I don't know the
name he was using when you met him several years ago,
but he's a mighty man of stature. He's got a great deal
more brawn than brain. With all due deference to his bulk
I believe him to be a coward at heart.
Soapy is of different calibre. He's not brave, and knows
it. I believe if he had the necessary courage (this in all
humility) he'd cut adrift like I’m trying to do.
We have a big house at Medhurst, and I give you my
solemn advice to keep away from it. I won't be more ex-
plicit as to the site of the house, but, should you ever find
yourself in a village of that name (even though it might
not be the actual village to which I refer) clear out! You're
rather like me in features, Tommy, and they might spot
you.
It is very strange, but I believe this to be the only letter
I have ever written to you, therefore please excuse its
length and the mournful tone of its contents. I am merely


CHAPTER XXXI
IN WIHICH TOMMY RECEIVES SOME ADVICE
Sº at his desk at Scotland Yard, Inspector Hig-
gins read for the third time that long letter from
Henry Hamper to his son.
So Hamper, if his letter could be believed, was in fear
for his life. He was afraid both of Raymond and of
Mapell, and Raymond was dead—had, in fact, been mur-
dered shortly afterwards. Apparently young Tommy
Hamper had seen his father just before the letter had been
written, yet, according to the report on the inquest,
Tommy Hamper had denied that he had seen his father
recently. Higgins rang the bell at his desk, and asked the
messenger who appeared in response to the summons
to procure for him Constable Summers's report on the
Hamper suicide and the original letter of Henry Hamper
sent to Scotland Yard from the Dead-Letter Office.
This letter from Henry Hamper to his son; one word
out of the context particularly impressed itself upon the
inspector. The word “Deference.” Another was “fellow.”
“With all due deference et cetera I believe the fel-
low. . . .” “Deference. . . . Fellow.”
Henry Hamper seemingly could spell “deference” yet
the word “deferred” tangled him up. And there was a
difference between “fellers” and “fellow.” The note sent
on from the Dead-Letter Office must be a forgery. Ac-
cording to Sanderson the man Mapell had written it. Or,
alternatively, this letter from Hamper to his son might
be an elaborate forgery. Mustn't lose sight of that possi-
bility.
There was a timid knock at his door.
234


TOMMY RECEIVES SOME ADVICE 239
it is. They're all good. How's this sound to you? Succour
and Son. That's a cheering sort of name for a firm of
solicitors. They do you? Right. Let me see. Yes. You'd
better ask for Mr. William Succour. He's the junior part-
ner. Cheaper, you know. I’ll pay any charge. Tell him
what you like and ask his advice. When he advises you,
mind you follow out his instructions. I'll tell one of my
men to show you the way. That's all right”—airily.
When, a few minutes later, young Thomas Hamper
was conducted from the room by a constable instructed
by the inspector, Higgins sank back into his seat with a
sigh, pulled out his handkerchief and solemnly mopped
his brow.
“Gosh!” he murmured as he pulled the telephone in-
strument towards him.
“Hallo! Hallo! Embankment 18181. Hallo! Hallo!
Succour and Son? Put me through to Mr. William,
please. Hallo! Mr. William Succour? That you, Bill?
Higgins speaking. Look here, old man. I’ve sent round a
youngster with a load on his mind. . . . What's that?
. . . Commission? . . . Commission me foot! He's going
to tell you a harassing yarn, and ask your advice. . . .
You'd better tell him to say nothing. . . . It'll all blow
over or something. What's that? . . . You’d probably
have told him that in any case? . . . I wonder. . . .
He's to keep mum. . . . That's the main thing. . . .
How's the missus? . . . Good. . . . Keep off the beer!
. . . Cheerio!” Higgins rang off.
That, at least, was that!
Once more Inspector Higgins mopped his brow.
Tommy! He liked the kid! Still, young Thomas Hamper
was asking for trouble, and if the lad were not mighty
careful it would be the inspector's job to see that he got
it! These promiscuous confessions were the very devil to
a conscientious police officer. Once given, after the official
warning, they must be acted upon, irrespective of any


CHAPTER XXXII
IN WEHICH A MAN TELEPHONES
S O Mrs. Hick was dead. Knowing but little she knew
too much. Mapell would stick at nothing to conceal his
identity, and Mrs. Hick, poor soul, was one of the few
outsiders who had seen him in the flesh. Jill Crawford
had also seen the man. Inspector Higgins once more pulled
the telephone towards him, and, having obtained his con-
nection, gave some terse instructions, then snapped back
the receiver.
Mrs. Hick. Was she likely to have committed suicide?
Most unlikely. She seemed to be too much in love with
life to end it precipitately by her own hand. Yet the
alternative was murder. Murder. If Inspector Higgins
were correct in his reasoning then Mapell already had at
least two murders on his conscience. A third was not
likely to worry him overmuch, especially as the third
constituted such a danger. Mapell must by this time have
been cognisant of the police activities in connection with
the death of Henry Hamper, and must have realised that
the police had connected the bogus constable of that Sun-
day night with Mapell of the big house. Assuming that
Mapell was responsible for the death of Mrs. Hick, then
the man must be getting rattled.
Inspector Higgins, as soon as he had come to this con-
clusion, gave instructions for the watch on the ports to
be doubled, and for the photograph of Mapell (although
it was so out of date) to be circulated throughout the
country. If Mapell were on the run, then their chances of
catching the man were rosy. A criminal in a hurry always
makes a mistake.
24I


242 THE MURDER ON THE BUS
Again the telephone bell rang out its insistent summons,
and the inspector eyed the instrument askance. It seemed
as if every time he settled down to concentrate upon this
case he was to be interrupted. Wearily he lifted the re-
ceiver, and voiced a desultory “Hullo!”
“Someone wishes to speak to you, sir.”
“Who is it? I’m busy!”
“Won't give a name, sir.”
“Then tell him to go to hell!” Savagely Inspector Hig-
gins replaced the receiver on its hook, but, a second later,
the bell was again ringing.
“Now what?”
“Sorry, sir. He says he's a friend of Mr. Sudd.”
Sudd? Sudd? Gosh! Soapy.
“All right. Put him through.”
There was a metallic click within the earpiece, which
almost deafened the inspector, and caused him to mutter
imprecations beneath his breath. Then:
“Hullo! Inspector Higgins?”
Higgins was immediately galvanised into life, his body
tensed and became rigid. It was the “voice”! He'd know
it anywhere! He pulled himself together, and subjected
his emotion sufficiently to reply in a studiously casual
VOICe:
“Yes. Higgins speaking. Who are you?”
“I—er—think you know me, Inspector.”
“Friend of Mr. Sudd—so I was told—though who
Mr. Sudd is I haven't the faintest. . . .”
“Then why did you consent to speak to me after re-
fusing to do so?”
“Merely curiosity. But I'm busy. Who are you?”
Inspector Higgins infused into his voice just a faint
suggestion of asperity to bolster up his remark. Mean-
while his brain was working at incredible speed. He pulled
a pad towards him and was writing furiously thereon
with his free hand.


A MAN TELEPHONES 243
“The Mr. Sudd to whom I referred is sometimes known
as ‘Soapy’l”
“What! Soapy Sudd?”—an inflection of complete sur-
prise in his voice. “Then you're . . .”
“Exactly.”
“Well, what d'y’ want?”
“I want you to call it off.”
“What the blazes are you driving at?”
Time was what the inspector wanted. Time. He pressed
the bell at his side impatiently, and tore the top sheet from
the pad on which he had been writing.
“What I say. Call it off! I'll make it worth your while.”
Deeply as the inspector's soul resented this sugges-
tion, yet he knew he must play for time. That messenger
was a devil of a time coming. Again he pressed the bell.
“Worth my while, eh? H'm. Worth my while! Well—
er . . .”—artistically. A man tempted and about to fall!
There was a knock at the door. The messenger at last.
Higgins placed his hand over the mouthpiece of the in-
strument and called out: “Come in.”
The messenger entered and was about to speak when
Higgins placed the tips of his fingers on his lips, then
pointed to the sheet of paper on the table in front of him.
The man walked to the desk, picked up the piece of paper,
and read it.
Urgent. Trace this call. Telephone nearest station to
arrest caller. I’ll keep him as long as possible.
The messenger turned to Higgins with a startled ex-
pression in his eyes, but meeting such a frown of concen-
trated venom in the inspector's countenance, he turned
about and incontinently bolted from the room.
The voice at the other end of the wire spoke again:
“Think, my dear Inspector, what you could do with
—say—twenty thousand pounds.”


CHAPTER XXXIII
IN WEIICH INSPECTOR HIGGINS DOES SOME VISITING
EFORE he had released the receiver from his grasp
Inspector Higgins regretted his precipitate action. In
his disgust at being outwitted he had let his anger run
away with his discretion. Mapell was now warned that
there was nothing further doing in the bribe line. Lord!
What a fool I am, reflected Higgins, mentally kicking
himself. If he hadn't cut off he might have been able to
string Mapell along until the other telephone booth had
been traced. True, the stringing of Mapell would have
been a weary and nerve-racking business, yet . . . In-
spector Higgins impatiently waggled the receiver.
“You cut me off, miss,” mendaciously, to the operator
who answered his call, in the hope that he might be in-
stantly re-connected.
“Did you make the call, sir?”
“No, miss.”
“Then if you'll replace your receiver they may ring up
again, and . . .”
“They may not,” interrupted Higgins, sarcastically.
“Scotland Yard this end, as you're probably well aware.
Find that number, miss, and report to me immediately.
Higgins, Inspector. And now give me—er ” Higgins
glanced at the paper on his desk upon which he had re-
corded the telephone number of the call office from which
Mapell had originally telephoned. “–Er—Langham
14796 . . . Hallo! . . . Hallo! . . .”
“Well?” a casual voice at the other end of the wire
answered him.
“Who are you?” queried Higgins, testily.
249


250 THE MURDER ON THE BUS
“And who are you?” in a similar tone of voice.
This was getting them nowhere.
“I'm Higgins of the Yard.”
“Oh, sorry, sir! I'm Keller of the Strand. Your bird
had vanished by the time we got here, which was about
three minutes after we got your telephone message. Worst
of it is we don't know whom to look for.”
“And I, worse luck, can give no description; but 'phone
me in about five minutes and I can put you on to another
call office. You'll be too late, of course, but it's Mapell
we're looking for. You've seen his photo, but that's twenty
years old, unfortunately. Goodbye.”
Disconsolately Inspector Higgins rang off.
Was Mapell speaking the truth when he suggested that
he consistently disguised his voice? That distinctive hard
calculating voice! Was it his usual voice or was it merely
a pose for effect and possibly protection? And that blarney
about disguising fingerprints. That bluff about the glove!
If it were true then the only clue in the hands of the police
would vanish. The thumbprint which was indelibly im-
pressed upon the inspector's memory was utterly useless.
Impossible. It must be impossible! One impression had
been recovered from the big house. Was it likely that the
man Mapell had worn the gloves whilst in the presence of
his associates and before his suspicions had been aroused?
Hardly likely. No. The man must have been bluffing when
he suggested that he always wore gloves to disguise his
fingerprints. Higgins cheered up at the thought.
A moment later the telephone operator rang up with the
further information as to the number and situation of the
second call office which Mapell had used that day. It was
also in the West End, but half a mile away from the pre-
vious one. Two minutes later the additional information
had been handed on to the two men from the Strand Po-
lice Station, and they immediately set off on what promised
to be a fruitless errand.
A knock at the door.


INSPECTOR HIGGINS DOES SOME VISITING 251
“The young lady, sir.”
“Ah! Come in, Miss Crawford.” The inspector's voice
was tinged with an indefinable relief. “I’m glad you were
able to come.”
“Of course I was—but what is it all about?”
“Reverting to the man whom you saw follow me into
that empty house at Horton Road: the description you've
given us would fit most average men. Here's the point—
are you certain that you would be able to recognise him
were you to see him again?”
“Well—I don't really know. There was little light save
from the moon, but—well, I believe I could.”
“In that case I'm going to ask you to move. In fact I
should like you to stay here a few days. Our resident ma-
tron will be glad to put you up.”
“But why . . .”
“Look here, miss. I don't want to frighten you, but—to
a certain desperate criminal—you know too much.”
“I’m sorry, but I can't.”
“In that case—I, too, am sorry—I must use force.”
“You daren't!” Jill Crawford flared up.
“H'm.” Inspector Higgins turned to the waiting mes-
senger. “Arrest this young lady for being in enclosed
premises at Horton Road with—er—with intent. That's
it. With intent. Vague but useful.”
The man's expression was one of complete bewilder-
ment and surprise, and but for the interception of a covert
wink from the inspector he, apparently, would have stood
by for hours.
“Come along, missy.”
“Oh, I’ll stay, Inspector.”
“That's very sensible, Jill.”
“Miss Crawford, please.”
“I—er—meant Miss Crawford, Jill.”
“Ah, Tommy. So you've seen the solicitors and un-
burdened your soul? And what is the result?”


252 THE MURDER ON THE BUS
“I—I’ve got nothing to say, sir.”
“What? They told you to keep mum?”—superb sur-
prise in his voice.
“Yessir.”
“Who did you see?”
“Mr. William Succour, sir. Chap about your age. He
was very insistent. Told me I mustn't breathe a word of
what I told him to you. And the things he said about you
policemen!” Tommy chuckled in appreciation.
“Eh! What things?”
“Coo. I shouldn't like to tell you, sir.”
“H'm.” Next time he saw Bill Succour Inspector Hig-
gins promised to say a few things about solicitors in gen-
eral and the junior partner of Messrs. Succour and Son
in particular!
“Well. I'm sorry, Tommy, but we'll have to keep you
for a few days.”
“Arrested, sir?”
“Well—er—you—er—shouldn't carry revolvers with-
out a licence, you know.”
The sporting rifle found by Inspector Higgins behind
the skirting-board in that room at 79, Horton Road, had
been duly reported upon by the gun expert of Scotland
Yard. There was not the slightest sign of a fingerprint,
although it had been tested with complete thoroughness.
The barrel had not been cleaned since last it had been
fired, and the bullet which had killed the man found on top
of the bus fitted the rifle. The maker's name and the dis-
tinctive number of the rifle had been carefully removed—
possibly by some chemical means—but the gun expert had
ascertained that the makers were The Eureka Sports Gun
Manufacturing Corporation.
The manager of this Company was the embodiment of
courtesy and gave to the police every help. The gun was
one of the Company's latest models, and sample weapons
had been sent to over a hundred dealers mostly on sale


CHAPTER XXXIV
IN WIHICH THE INSPECTOR IS WARNED
Fº some moments there was complete silence, broken
only by the embarrassed fidgeting of Mr. Tyndall,
and the stertorous breathing of Inspector Higgins. Then
the inspector emitted a sigh of relief. He had no evidence
that the gun under discussion was the one which had been
used in the murder of the man Raymond. Might be a
coincidence after all. At any rate, the purchaser might
have been any young man of Hamper's age, and might be
entirely unconnected with the case.
Still, personal feelings must be put aside; the law re-
quired a victim; Duty must be done.
“Will you come and try to identify the man—if called
upon?”
“I–er—I can't very well. I’m sailing for Canada on
Saturday. Bought me tickets, and so forth. It's hard at my
time o' life to start again, but needs must, when one gets
swindled in a business. Fancy! All my savings invested
in a dying business. It-it breaks my heart! It . . .” The
man broke off, seemingly on the verge of tears. Inspector
Higgins was painfully embarrassed.
“We'll—er—we'll make it up to you, and all that, you
know. Although, of course, if we chose, we could—pre-
vent you sailing if it were in the interests of justice so
to do.”
“Of course, Inspector. If you pay my expenses . . .”
The other brightened at the suggestion of compensation
for time lost, although he seemed none too pleased at the
prospect of having his start abroad postponed. “Well—
that's different. What do you want me to do?”
257


258 THE MURDER ON THE BUS
“I’ll let you know to-morrow morning.”
“Right. I'll be here. I live overhead.”
Inspector Higgins made his departure, but immediately
telephoned to Headquarters for a man to be put on Mr.
Tyndall's tracks. It would never do were the man to ignore
the official request and leave the country without attempt-
ing to identify the purchaser of the gun.
The replies from the provincial gunsmiths were duly
received. One informed the inspector that his models had
not yet been sold, but the other letter is worthy of being
set out in full.
Dear Sir,
In reply to your letter of even date, I have to inform
you that of the dozen samples of the Eureka No. 7 model
sporting rifle sent to us on sale or return by the manufac-
turers, sir only have been sold. These, with a boar of bul-
lets, were sent on the 3rd October last, to
Mr. Hamper,
Medhurst.
Should you require any further information we shall
be happy to supply same.
Yours faithfully,
Then followed a hieroglyphic, completely indecipher-
able.
Inspector Higgins set off post-haste for the big house
at Medhurst. The place was still under police surveillance,
and to the sergeant in charge the inspector explained the
reason for his visit.
“No, sir. The rifle range hasn't been touched. But I
thought you'd been over it.”
“I have—perfunctorily. But I want to go again.”
“Very good, sir.”
Inspector Higgins recognised the model immediately.
The last time he had searched the place he had not found


THE INSPECTOR IS WARNED 259
the weapon at Horton Road, but now he had something
to go upon.
“That's the chap, Sergeant. Any more?”
“Four more, sir. Five in all.”
“Five? You're sure?”
A thorough search failed to reveal any more weapons
of that make.
Higgins was disappointed. He had hoped to find only
four of the six. Five rather spoiled his calculations.
“A letter for you—er—Chief!”
“Chief?” Higgins frowned. He hated levity, especially
from a subordinate, yet Sergeant Mercier had a reputa-
tion to keep up!
“That's what it says on the envelope, sir. Chief In-
spector Higgins.” Mercier coughed. “I thought perhaps
you'd been promoted or something.”
“No such luck”—good-humouredly.
“And—there's thruppence to pay.”
Higgins grinned cheerfully, and paid over the sur-
charge, the envelope being without a stamp. “If only pro-
motion were as cheap as that, Mercier!”
Inspector Higgins slit the envelope and withdrew a
dirty sheet of paper, at which he frowned thoughtfully.
Keep away from the Mansions—A frend.
Inspector Higgins grinned, then handed the paper to
Sergeant Mercier.
“A very illuminating document, Mercier. I wonder who
our ‘frend' is? Just run along and look up the finger-
prints on this. There are quite half a dozen distinct im-
pressions. And where the Mansions are from which I am
advised to keep away—well, I haven't the faintest idea.”
Sergeant Mercier smiled and withdrew. Five minutes
later he returned, still smiling.
“Your ‘frend,' sir, is Soapy Sudd.”


262 THE MURDER ON THE BUS
Inspector Higgins surveyed his subordinate quizzically.
Mercier's reputation for somewhat childish humour had
dimmed the fact that occasionally he emitted words of wis-
dom. Higgins was mildly surprised.
“Thank you, Sergeant,” he said, quickly, and nodded
dismissal.
Number Ten, Sunningdell Mansions! Come along
quietly to-night! He'll be alone! Did Mapell assume that
these words would tempt Inspector Higgins to visit the
flat alone in order to effect a spectacular arrest singlehanded
and thus keep all the glory to himself?
And if he went alone what sort of a reception awaited
him? Higgins smiled. Mercier was right when he insisted
that he must investigate the Mansions. Of course, it would
be easy enough to send someone in his stead, but under the
circumstances, considering the possibilities of danger, In-
spector Higgins did not feel called upon to delegate such
duty. There was something personal about the matter.
Certain preliminary questions could be cleared up first.
It was a simple matter to ascertain from the estate agents
particulars as to the flat, with a plan of its topography. Ap-
parently the flat was let furnished, the present tenant being
away. The tenant was a popular sporting figure, a major,
and the newspapers recently had been full of descriptions
of his party (with photographs) attending the winter
sports in Switzerland.
Obviously Mapell had read of this, and with his usual
nerve had appropriated the flat for his own use. The odds
were about a million to one that he was not within a
dozen miles of the place, yet care must be exercised in
case he was. Therefore Higgins set off for a preliminary
investigation of the Mansions before putting any raid
into execution.
Sunningdell Mansions were a block of flats, about a
dozen in number, having a common entrance. From the
estate agent's description No. Io was on the second
floor. Higgins surveyed the building from the outside,


THE INSPECTOR IS WARNED 263
making no attempt to enter. Then he turned his attention
to the rear. Sunningdell Mansions, with three other similar
blocks, backed on to a quadrangle of well-nurtured lawn,
upon which were marked out two tennis courts. For the
convenience of the respective tenants there were speaking-
tubes from the back doors to the various flats, with lifts
for tradesmen's goods running up the outside walls. Hig-
gins gazed at one such lift with speculative eye.
Yes. It would do.
Later that evening three men stood at the rear of Sun-
ningdell Mansions awaiting instructions from Inspector
Higgins. Higgins himself, as a preliminary, had blown
up the speaking-tube of No. Io, but nothing had happened.
He took a chance in thus warning any possible occupant
of his presence outside, but, having learned from the
porter of the flats that blowing up the speaking-tubes
was a recognised form of entertainment of the children of
the neighbourhood, he had decided to take that chance.
Inspector Higgins returned to the three waiting men at
the rear.
“Now then, these are my final instructions. I’m going
to walk up the stairs till I reach the top of the building.
I've greased the pulley wheel of the lift and tested the
rope, and the cage of the lift is already at the top. When
I signal you must take the strain of the ropes below, then
lower the cage gently until I'm level with the second
floor. I'm going to get out, and the moment I do so you
must pull up the lift to the top of the building again.
Then one of you remain at the back, whilst the other two
enter the Mansions and walk up the steps till you are out-
side number ten. Wait there until I signal. If you hear
any signs of a struggle, any help will be gratefully re-
ceived. Also, if after ten minutes you hear nothing, the
same remark applies. Bust the door in. The major's a
sport—he won't mind.”
All went according to plan, save that, in the blackness
of the evening, the lift cage looked infinitely more frail


264 THE MURDER ON THE BUS
than when the inspector had tested it in the broad light
of day. However, it bore his weight, and he found himself
on the verandah outside the single French window of No.
Io. There was an eerie atmosphere about the place, height-
ened by the fact that there might be a trap, coupled with
the chance that the message might have been genuine and
Mapell actually was alone and unsuspecting the other side
of the window.
Still, no amount of theorising would make progress on
the verandah. Action was needed. Higgins withdrew from
his jacket pocket his powerful electric torch, placed the
bulb against the window-pane an arm's length away, hoped
for the best, and pressed the button.
The resultant beam of light was not answered with a
shot, and Higgins breathed a sigh of thankfulness. The
torch illuminated the room, which was furnished as a
kitchen and was devoid of occupant. Three minutes later
Inspector Higgins was within the room.
He tiptoed to the door and gingerly tested the handle.
The door yielded. Inspector Higgins gripped the butt of
his revolver and felt comforted. Carefully he opened the
door. Not a sound!
Once more he brought his torch into use, then gave
an exclamation of surprise.
Bound hand and foot to a chair, with his back towards
the doorway through which Higgins was peering, was the
still form of a man.
A man with snow-white hair.
It was Soapy Sudd—aged almost beyond recognition.


CHAPTER XXXV
IN WIHICH THE INSPECTOR ADVERTISES
INº. HIGGINS, after one brief glance at the
man in the chair which satisfied himself as to the man's
identity, stared intently round the room. Seemingly,
Soapy and himself were the sole occupants, so the inspec-
tor instantly repaired to release the unfortunate Soapy.
The man was expertly bound and gagged. He could
not move an inch, being unable even to turn his head.
With great gentleness Higgins removed the gag from the
man's mouth, and Soapy's first words were:
“Keep away from the other dore, sir! Keep away from
the other dore!”
Higgins, before attempting to release the man from
his bonds, walked to the door and examined it with in-
terest, by the aid of his electric torch. Then, throwing
discretion to the winds, he switched on the electric light.
Nothing happened.
The resultant illumination of the room revealed some-
thing which the torch failed to do—a thin piece of thread
attached to the handle.
Higgins followed the lead to its source, then nodded
grimly to himself.
Protruding from between two books on a shelf was a
revolver, its muzzle pointed directly at the unfortunate
Soapy. Attached to its trigger was the thread. Higgins
carefully removed the books to find that the revolver
had been clamped into position by a cheap thumbscrew
V1Ce.
“Look be’ind me, guv'nor.”
Inspector Higgins swung ſºund startled, fully expect-
5


266 THE MURDER ON THE BUS
ing to see a sneering Mapell, but there was nothing ap-
parent.
“Opposite the dore—be careful!”
A close inspection of the opposite wall revealed a
similar device, but this time the revolver was trained on
the door itself.
“How very nice,” muttered Higgins.
The thread attached to the trigger was followed back
by Higgins, and he found that it was stretched across
the room above the height of an average man, but so that
the door, when full open would push it forward.
“Primitive, but possibly effective.”
He paused to worry the thing out in his mind. Assum-
ing that he had taken the note at its face value, what would
he have done? Why—knocked at the door of No. 10,
possibly using the formal “Open, in the name of the
King,” and would then have tried the handle. The im-
mediate result of this would have been to fire the revolver
fastened to the shelf. Exit Soapy. What would have been
his reaction to the sound of the shot? Why—he would
immediately have flung open the door. Exit Higgins. The
inspector ran a clammy finger round his collar.
There was a knock at the door.
For one brief second the inspector's faculties seemed
paralysed, then he shouted in a voice expressive of an
awful fear:
“Keep away from that door!”
“Are you all right, sir?” It was one of his outside
helpers.
“Yes, but don’t touch the handle of that door.”
In his inspection of the room Higgins had forgotten
the flight of time and, the ten minutes being up, the man
outside was just about to obey his instructions and lend
his aid, having heard nothing from the inspector.
Higgins' forgetfulness had almost cost Soapy his life.
He turned to the man, but Soapy had fainted.
“Just as well,” murmured the inspector.


268 THE MURDER ON THE BUS
4.
Higgins blinked. He had been under the impression
that his entrance to the flat had been the acme of silent
circumspection. He consoled himself with the thought
that the ears of the unfortunate Soapy must have been,
owing to his predicament, hypersensitive.
“Yus, guv'nor. W'enever yer crackin' a crib yer gotta
keep quiet—it's presentiall”
The revolvers were worse than useless as clues, being
of a pattern much in use by officers during the war, and
obtainable from any second-hand old-iron dealer. The
numbers had been carefully filed away, and they were
devoid of fingerprints.
Inspector Higgins had questioned Soapy, but he could
give no indication as to where Heckenstein or Mapell
could be found. He had been left “holding the sack” and
was glad of it! At last he had been able to break from
the evil influence of the pair.
And then like a bolt from the blue came a clue of
outstanding importance, which of itself was a testimonial
to the inspector's thoroughness.
When Mr. Henry Adams, of Mount Helen, Hampstead,
had paid his visit to Scotland Yard, and tardily admitted
that he had been the mysterious second fare on that fatal
last bus, Inspector Higgins had impressed upon him the
importance of informing the police were any further de-
mands made upon him for the suppression of the incrimi-
nating letters.
Mr. Adams had almost collapsed on learning that further
demands might be made, but had agreed to call in the
police should such an event happen.
Inspector Higgins, however, was taking no chances,
and had given instructions for a careful watch to be kept
on Mr. Adams's correspondence. His caution was eventu-
ally rewarded, for a photographic reproduction of a letter
recently sent to Mr. Adams was duly forwarded to Scot-
land Yard for inspection, with the annotation that the


27o THE MURDER ON THE BUS
towards the thousand I have already lost in this matter, I
should be grateful. Please yourself, of course.
P.P.S. Naturally I trust in your honour not to mention
this matter to the police, for, after all, I'm in a similar
position to yourself, save that I have been lucky enough to
recover my incriminating documents.
Inspector Higgins nodded his head approvingly. A
“fetching” epistle! Whoever was responsible for the draft-
ing of the letter was fully alive to the weak, vacillating
character of Mr. Henry Adams. The P.S. raised a smile,
whilst the P.P.S. called forth an appreciative chortle.
“Oh! Kathleen! Kathleen! What subtlety!”
Inspector Higgins reached for the telephone, and gave
instructions for the original letter to be held up indef-
initely. Then he dictated an advertisement for the Agony
column of The Times.
Kathleen—am overwhelmed; will split expenses; say
five hundred—love—Muriel.
The inspector considered the penultimate word a master-
stroke of irony.


274 THE MURDER ON THE BUS
hind, then it is highly improbable that the case would
ever have reached a satisfactory conclusion.
Inspector Higgins had asked the man to call that day,
mainly that a suspicion which had formed in his mind,
and which refused to budge, might be swept away. Mr.
Tyndall, lugubrious as ever, had reluctantly complied with
his request, and expressed the hope that he might have
been called on a false alarm, as he wished nothing to delay
his departure for Canada at the end of the week. Higgins
also ardently hoped that the parade might be a frost, yet
he felt that, matters having progressed so far, he must
stop to learn the outcome.
The parade was held in the courtyard of Scotland Yard.
Twelve men of an age, similar in appearance, all about the
same height and general condition, stood in a straight
line and stared uneasily at Mr. Tyndall on his approach.
Without a moment's hesitation he picked out one of
them.
“This man, Inspector, is the one who purchased that
rifle from my shop.”
“It's a lie! A damned lie!”
Young Thomas Hamper was led protestingly away.
Inspector Higgins sat wearily in his chair and stared
into space. In front of him was the sworn deposition of
Mr. Tyndall, in which the case against Tommy Hamper
was made complete. Higgins was greatly upset at the out-
come. His grave suspicions, instead of being lulled to rest,
had merely been made into certainties.
Still! Duty was Duty! With a sigh he rose from his
desk. This raid. He must go through with it. His eager-
ness of an hour and a half ago had abated almost to indif-
ference. He knew that the picked men were even now
assembling for the raid and waiting for his arrival. . . .
Let 'em wait! . . . To think that Tommy . . .
The inspector left Scotland Yard in his two-seater for
Huntingdon, refusing the aid of a driver, and using his


A DOOR IS OPEN 277
“Look here, Higgins, I can't help thinking that some-
thing's happened to my men in the other cars. If you
don't mind I’d like to drive back and see. Coming?”
The superintendent was anxious as to his men's welfare.
“No. I'll hang about till you return.”
“Righto.”
The superintendent soon found out the reason for the
delay. At the corner of Hartford Road and the Hunting-
don High Street, locally known as the Three Tun corner
by reason of a public house of that name nearby, he found
an interested crowd of people. In spite of the efficiency
of the traffic policeman generally on duty there, an ac-
cident had occurred. A speed fiend on a motor-cycle had
endeavoured to justify a coroner's recent remark, but,
fortunately for himself, had just failed to commit suicide
whilst in his unsound mind. He had collided with the
second police car, the one immediately behind Higgins's
two-seater, and had knocked it out of action. The driver
of the third car, whose idea of a “discreet distance”
consisted of a matter of a dozen feet or so, had just
managed to pull up in time, had skidded, and bent his rear
wheel. No one was injured, but both cars were temporarily
out of action.
In spite of the identity of the occupants of the cars,
there was considerable delay in obtaining particulars of
the accident, and on the superintendent's arrival on the
scene the senior officer of the twelve had only just suc-
ceeded in commandeering two more cars in which to
continue the journey to Handley House.
Inspector Higgins stared at the open front door, his
mind groping for the precise significance of this phenom-
enon. It seemed to point to sudden flight, yet, if this
were correct, what had warned Mapell and Heckenstein of
impending danger? Was it that subtle sixth sense which
sometimes cautions the habitual criminal?


CHAPTER XXXVII
IN WEIICH A BATTLE IS STAGED
NSPECTOR HIGGINS sat in the corner, scarcely
daring to breathe. He had been so confident in his mind
that the birds had flown, that the shot had nearly fright-
ened him to death. Had he not been crawling upon the
floor, the bullet must have hit him.
Then silence.
The effect was eerie. Higgins, seated in the corner, had
an awful conviction that someone was creeping along the
floor in his direction. At the same time it occurred to him
that to stay where he was would be dangerous—he must
get a move on! Gingerly he extended a tentative feeling
hand, which encountered nothing, so he crawled forward.
Totally unaware of the position of the furniture, he was
desperately afraid of colliding with some obstacle hidden
by the darkness and thus disclosing his position. For he
had not the slightest doubt that, were he to make the
merest suggestion of noise, the other occupant would
immediately pepper him with shot. His heart was pumping
like a steamhammer, and seemed to fill the room with
sound. With infinite care he crawled away from the door.
Something alive brushed against his arm, and he felt
his hair rise on end. It was a cat—an ordinary, domestic
cat—yet the relief almost caused him to emit a sigh.
Yes! Without a doubt it was a cat! A cat, more-
over, glad to find itself with company! It immediately
showed its pleasure in the usual feline way by setting up
a purr. Not unlike the sound of the engine of a high-
powered car, or of a distant aeroplane.
Inspector Higgins, in an agony of apprehension, wiped
I


A BATTLE IS STAGED 283
That would be Mapell and Heckenstein—without a doubt.
Well, at any rate, when the superintendent did arrive,
supposing that he ever did, he would find both the crimi-
nals within the house. That, at least, was something.
Unless, of course, he and his men arrived too late, and
merely found the recently murdered body of a rising
detective-inspector of the Metropolitan Police.
Again Inspector Higgins licked his lips. Lord! What a
fool he had been butting in on his lonesome like this!
He’d properly overreached himself this time. Two des-
peradoes, adequately armed, and himself with—how many
bullets left? Was it two or three? Let's see, now! It
took three shots to break down the lock, and one he had
fired at the cat. Four ! So he had three left—or was it two?
Were the official police revolvers six- or seven-cham-
bered? For the life of him Higgins couldn't remember.
Better say two and be on the safe side! Two bullets left.
One for Mapell and one for Heckenstein. Provided, of
course, that he didn't miss! And the worst of it was that
he had to fire merely as a last resource, and then simply
to disable, whilst neither Mapell nor Heckenstein had such
inhibitions. When they fired, they fired to kill.
A comforting thought—I don't think!
And what were the other two up to? Probably creeping
towards him in the darkness. This would never do! He
must get away from here somehow! Bad tactics on the
part of the others to have divided forces. Gave him a bit
of an advantage too, for, whilst there were three distinct
individuals crawling about in the darkness, both Mapell
and Heckenstein upon meeting with anyone else would
have instantly to decide whether it was friend or foe, with
an even chance of it being either, whereas Higgins suf-
fered under no such disability. Whoever he met would
be a foe! Still. . . . Oh law' . . .
To stay in one place was dangerous; to move—infinitely
more so!
He had been in a similar position once before, but


A BATTLE IS STAGED 285
light as he fell. Two sharp flashes, almost simultaneous,
followed by a roar of the discharge, and Higgins felt a
searing pain in the calf of his leg.
Then again complete quietness, doubly accentuated by
the recent reports. Inspector Higgins dared not move. The
pain in his leg was bad enough, yet he felt a terrible urge
to cough. The fumes of the cordite had penetrated to his
lungs, and it was only the thought that the others must
be in a similar predicament which prevented him from
clearing his throat from the fumes.
At last he could stand it no longer. Seemingly his shots
had had no effect unless either Mapell or Heckenstein
were wounded and were bearing the wound with the stoical
quietude of Higgins himself. Resolutely he stood to his
feet. Being near the door he felt for the electric light
switch. It was now or never. He had either one or, at the
most, two bullets left in his revolver. Duty urged him to
attempt to make an arrest. Perhaps he could bluff them.
If not, then either Mapell or Heckenstein would be left
behind for the superintendent to find when he made his
belated arrival.
He pulled down the switch.
Save for a black cat, sedately and placidly licking its
paws in the centre of the room, the room was empty.
Then the door burst open, and the superintendent with
his men dashed into the room.
“So you've got here at last!” The banal remark re-
moved the tension, and all eyes turned to the direction of a
curtain at the other end of the room which was swinging
idly, although there was not a breath of wind.
“In there! Steady! They're armed!”
“So I heard”—dryly, from the superintendent.
Behind the curtain was a door, the key of which was
facing them. Obviously, in their hurry, Mapell and Heck-
enstein had had no time to change it, which was just as
well.
Higgins tried the door. It was firmly held from the


A BATTLE IS STAGED 287
Higgins gazed at the man compassionately. Then he
recognised him. It was Heckenstein, the notorious Ameri-
can car-thief and gunman.
And the other must be Mapell.
Inspector Higgins stared down at the still form. The
man had taken his own life, thus cheating the law of its
prey, yet, after all, it possibly simplified matters. The
thought obtruded that perhaps the man might still be
alive, so, with a faint gesture of repugnance, Inspector
Higgins gently turned him over.
An exclamation, forcible and unprintable, broke from
his lips.
He was staring into the dead face of Mr. Tyndall,
gunsmith and cartridge-maker, of Shoreditch.


290 THE MURDER ON THE BUS
One of these days it'd let him down, and then . . .
Gently he eased himself on to the seat.
“Thank you, sir. The Raymond murder . . .
With terse phrases Inspector Higgins gave a succinct
account of his recent activities, neither amplifying nor
minimising any part he himself had played. When he had
finished, without interruption (for the Chief rarely had
anything to ask until he had heard the whole tale), he
slumped back comfortably into his chair, but a protesting
squeak brought him quickly upright again.
Chief Inspector Dryan, who had been sitting with his
elbows on his desk, his fingers clasped, and solemnly
sucking the middle knuckle of his left hand whilst star-
ing at his subordinate's boots, looked up.
“And what of Tyndall's shop in Shoreditch?”
“Very useful, sir. Apparently Mapell had been running
the shop for years. All the East End and most of the
imported gunmen used to buy their gats from him. Did
quite a trade, I fancy. And no questions asked. Also sold
burglar's tools and the like. Oh, a very lucrative business!”
“And would Mr. Tyndall, or Mapell, or whatever his
name really was, have been allowed to sail for Canada at
the end of that week, do you think?”
“I—I hardly know, sir. I was not suspicious, yet . . .
He might have done so, sir. We should have wanted him
as a witness, which must have delayed the date of his
sailing. At any rate”—with a grim smile—“he didn't,
which is the main thing.”
“And what of Mrs. Hick? ‘Found drowned' was the
verdict, I think you said?”
“Ah! Mrs. Hick! I missed a chance there, sir. She
used to work for Mapell when she lived at Notting Dale.
I'm pretty sure she didn't recognise him in his guise of
a policeman, yet Mapell himself must have recognised
her . . . and possibly took the er—necessary steps.”
“But we'll never know, eh? H'm. And Sanderson's
»


INSPECTOR HIGGINS MAKES A REPORT 293
To think that of that crowd of undesirables Soapy is the
only one at large. Why! I remember Soapy in my day!
Fancy him giving you the slip!” Dryan laughed in-
dulgently. “Soapy! The most simple of the lot! Gosh!
It's funny—damned funny!” The Chief gave himself up to
unrestrained amusement.
“Yes, sir. I'll admit it's very humiliating.”
Chief Inspector Dryan stopped his cachinnations, and
gazed for a long time at his subordinate.
“H'm.” A long pause. Then “H'm,” again. A still
longer period of silence, until at last the Chief emitted a
third grunt of incredulity.
Chief Inspector Dryan could see as far through a brick
wall as most men in his position.


CHAPTER XXXIX
IN WHICH THE INSPECTOR TELLS A STORY
HE bachelor flat of Inspector Higgins was the scene
of much jubilation, for the inspector was holding
an “At Home.”
Young Tommy Hamper, feeling mighty uncomfortable
in a collar and tie, was one of the guests, as was Miss
Jill Crawford, resplendent in a new party-frock. There
were two other guests. One, Mrs. John Snell, merely
invited as a sop to the proprieties and as a companion to
Jill, was busily engaged with the other—her little son.
The business of tea had been an unqualified success as
regards the two ladies and the little boy; Thomas Hamper,
however, seemed ill at ease, not entirely accounted for
by the restriction of his collar.
Inspector Higgins had regaled his guests with some
highly spectacular, if not exactly authentic, stories of his
manifold adventures. He was not always the hero, and
some of his predicaments, generally with a sub-stratum
of truth, caused great amusement.
“And do the police always catch the criminal, Mr.
Higgins?” queried Jill Crawford, thrilled to the core.
“Invariably.” Not exactly truthful, perhaps, but for-
givable under the circumstances.
“Very comforting, I’m sure"—somewhat quizzically,
from Mrs. Snell, who, being the daughter of Chief In-
spector Dryan, possibly knew when a grain of salt should
be taken.
It was inevitable that the case in which both Jill Craw-
ford and young Tommy Hamper had been so intimately
connected should come up for discussion.
Inspector Higgins explained to Tommy that the owner
294


THE INSPECTOR TELLS A STORY 297
He paused, as if to pick his words; then he continued:
“It's necessary, in the first place, to go back a few weeks,
to where a young man made a melodramatic appearance
in a mask and rescued a certain—er—eminent police
official from a very uncomfortable position.”
Young Tommy Hamper squirmed in his chair, but
refrained from any remark.
“The young man's arrival was most opportune—if un-
expected, for how he got there the er—eminent police
official did not discover until some time afterwards, when
a certain letter fell into his hands, in which the young
man was warned against visiting such a place.”
The inspector stopped and thoughtfully withdrew from
his pocket a blackened pipe, a well-filled pouch and a box
of matches. With calm deliberation he filled his pipe,
struck a match and held the flame to the bowl and sucked
meditatively. Blowing a huge cloud of smoke ceiling-
wards he suddenly bethought himself of the other, and
opening a cigarette box offered its contents to him. Tommy
took one, sniffed suspiciously at one end, accepted the in-
spector's offer of a match with ill-grace, then subsided
once more into his chair.
“However, the young man was not in charge of the
situation for very long, for the tables were turned very
shortly afterwards, and the pair found themselves in queer
street. Then followed a highly coloured episode in an old-
fashioned chimney”—Tommy involuntarily shuddered—
“which in turn degenerated into a still more comic episode
on a roof top.”
A pause during which, under cover of lighting his pipe,
Inspector Higgins subjected the youth to a critical inspec-
tion. Then:
“A fire followed, and the eminent police official having
escaped previously, the melodramatic young man was duly
rescued by an efficient fire-brigade, and, to show his ap-
preciation of their services, he promptly vanished without
expressing any thanks for his rescue.”


EPILOGUE
A MAN and a woman were seated in the drawing-
room of a private suite (generally reserved for the
ultra-wealthy) of a luxurious and exclusive Continental
hotel. The man was sipping a whisky and soda—the
woman reading a novel.
“Well, Sis, we got away with it!” The voice was that
of Thomas Hamper.
The woman looked up with a sophisticated smile.
“Yes,” she acquiesced. “But we had some very narrow
squeaks.”
Thomas Hamper nodded his agreement. “Yes, we cer-
tainly did—but fortunately we're quick thinkers.” A
pause of reminiscent thought, then: “Look at that time
when Higgins caught us in that empty house. We had to
act quickly then. You walked heavily across the floor in
order to warn Higgins of our presence, and thus stifle
any suspicion he might have entertained that we were
trying to dodge him. He's an easy one, that chap. You
kidded him that you were my girl instead of my sister—
and he fell for it. What made you think of the name of
‘Jill' ?”
“Dunno. Sounds the picture of innocence, anyhow.”
Hamper laughed. “Innocence! Good Lord! The way
you took the key from under his nose and left it in the
area was cute—bit too cute, almost.”
“Yes. As a matter of fact I nearly gave the game away
at the very outset. I told Higgins that I knew you were in
that attic. Then I amended it by saying I meant I could
feel it. Fortunately his chivalrous”—they both laughed at
the word—“chivalrous effort in leaving us together be-
fore he questioned you enabled us to perfect our plans.”
303


3O4 THE MURDER ON THE BUS
“Then my attack on Higgins and my attempted escape
was a good bluff—although I didn't bargain on getting
my arm damaged. When he mentioned hospitals I got a
shock. I had a lot to do that night.”
“You might have told me. I was in an awful state
when I couldn't find you. I'd been followed about all day
by an inquisitive cop.”
“Well. I was going to settle with the others of the
gang. You know when we had the bust-up because they
thought that the dad and I were getting too much control
of the funds they did in the old man between them. It
would have been our turn next. Anyhow, I went to the
Medhurst House and was surprised to find our friend
Higgins already there. He asked for my revolver. I told
him it wasn't loaded and he believed me. Sanderson didn't,
though. He was in a fearful sweat. Thought his hour had
come. He was in between two fires: Mapell and me, even
if we don't count the dear inspector. When the others
learned I was in the house they were well after my blood.
Tried to kill both me and Higgins. Old Higgins couldn't
make head nor tail of it, I could see. He was running over
in his mind the apparently senseless attack on his person—
little dreaming that I was the larger fry. I tried to help
the other members of the gang as regards getting rid of
the inspector. I could well afford to, for the blame would
be laid at their door—not mine. But Higgins bears a
charmed life. For instance, when he hauled in the ladder
from the window, I left him holding the sack, but they
missed him. Then I tried to assist him down the chimney.
Failed again. Then I tried to drop him off the roof, but
he caught hold of the guttering. Born lucky. Anyhow he
must have gone over the Medhurst house pretty thor-
oughly afterwards. Found some of my fingerprints there
too, I'll bet. Lucky he saw me there. I hope that none
turned up in unlikely places. They couldn't very well, or a
man, even of Higgins's mental calibre, must have been
put upon enquiry.”


EPILOGUE 305
“And what of Mrs. Hick?”
“Mapell”—laconically, from the man. “She knew
nothing of us.”
“The car was in your name, wasn't it, Tommy?”
“Yes.” Hamper frowned. “Mapell talked me into that.
I must avoid such a mistake in future, although I remem-
ber that it pleased my vanity at the time.”
There was a short silence, broken at last by the woman
known to Inspector Higgins as Jill Crawford.
“You know, Tommy, I nearly gave you away when
they questioned me at Scotland Yard. I was acting a part
and fluffed my lines. An almost authentic faint, however,
saved the situation. The matron at Scotland Yard is rather
a motherly old soul”—cynically.
“Never mind, Sis. I have you to thank for getting me
out of one mess. Higgins must have wondered how I knew
of the house at Medhurst. You gave me the idea of send-
ing that letter to myself as though my father had sent it.
I'll admit that the idea of sending it to an old address was
my own, but . . . Anyhow, it was you, Sis, who planted
it on the trusting Higgins.”
“Which reminds me, Tommy. You've squared the land-
lady all right?”
“Yes.” A pause. “She'd better not squeal”—cold and
menacing.
“Did you ever find out why Mapell followed us into
that house at Horton?”
“Can't say. Probably accidental, yet Mapell's a good
guesser or—I should say—was a good guesser. He'd
know that Raymond had met his fate from that house,
and he was probably looking round for some means to
give me away. He got rid of Sanderson very neatly. I
made a bad break there.”
“What made you shoot Sanderson?”
“I was somewhat hasty, Sis. After the fire I obtained
a gun and some ammunition from the range and cleared
off to that old cottage in order to hole up for a while.


308 THE MURDER ON THE BUS
“Lord, Sis! If that old woman Higgins could only see
us now, he-”
“He can.”
The pair swung round as the voice interrupted. Framed
in the doorway was the massive figure of the inspector,
a revolver in his right hand, and two pairs of handcuffs
suspended gently from the index finger of his left hand.
Behind the inspector were sundry figures in ornate uni-
forms.
Higgins beckoned with the index finger of his left hand.
The handcuffs jingled musically.
Hamper should have destroyed those tell-tale gloves,
for the matter had been duly reported by the Customs
Authorities, and Inspector Higgins had rather more in-
telligence than that with which Hamper credited him.
It was a coincidence that the day Hamper had stated
he would marry “Jill Crawford” should prove to be the
day he had the doubtful privilege of ordering what he
liked for breakfast.
THE END








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