Chapter I: 'a Policeman's Lot ...'

It was a bitter November night. Spike Moseley, trudging along the Embankment, shivered, and cursed under his breath. He was far from happy. He was cold and tired, and, worst of all, desperately nervous. As he stumbled along he suddenly checked, listening. Was that a step behind him? He swung round, his pulses thumping, and stared through the mist that drifted up from the river. Was it a trick of the darkness, or had he seen a dark figure take cover in the shadow of that shelter? Spike waited a moment, his heart in his mouth, and then trudged on.

He was afraid, and fear was a rare emotion in him. Spike had been a crook all his life, but he had always prided himself on the steadiness of his nerves. He had been in a score of tight places, and had extricated himself ably, but this was a different matter. Again he checked, every nerve taut. He knew, as a wild animal knows, that he was being followed, and his mouth dried as he listened. But he could hear nothing, except the far-off wail of a ship's siren, down river.

Spike set his teeth and went on again. Maybe it was only his imagination; the fancies that come to a sick man. For Spike felt very sick that night. His head was heavy, and he could hardly drag his feet along. It had come upon him suddenly. He had been all right an hour ago. Then, after that pint he'd had in the Four Feathers, he'd begun to feel queer. He wanted to lie down and sleep, but that was impossible. He had made up his mind to see this thing through. He had decided to tell Mr. Strickland what he knew. It was a poor thing to turn copper's nark, but it seemed the lesser of two evils. Spike turned up his coat collar and struggled on.

The policeman at the door of Scotland Yard eyed him with disfavour.

'Mr. Strickland about?'

His voice sounded queer. It was oddly difficult to get the words out. The policeman told him curtly that Mr. Strickland was busy. Spike fumbled in his pocket, and produced a grimy piece of paper and a stump of pencil. Laboriously he wrote a few words, folded the note, and gave it to the policeman.

'For Mr. Strickland,' he explained. 'Tell'm I'll wait by the bridge. 'S important.' He turned and shambled across the road.

Detective-Inspector Strickland was not in the best of tempers when he received Spike's communication. He had just been given marching orders, which meant throwing up a case that was absorbing all his interest. He knew it to be important--even urgent--but Authority had smiled, and had given him to understand that he was shying at a mare's nest. Just when proof seemed to be within his grasp, his Chief had seen fit to send him abroad.

Spike's note gave him a flash of hope. He had long believed that Spike could give him the information he wanted. He had tried to get it before, but without success. If Spike really intended to make a clean breast of it this time, there was a chance that he might be able to convince the Chief. He flung on his hat and coat and went out to find Spike.

The mist had thickened, and as he hurried towards Westminster Bridge he failed to see a man who was waiting in the shadow of the Embankment wall. The man saw Strickland, though, and smiled as he crouched below the balustrade. Then he followed, moving very softly for so big a man.

Spike Moseley was sitting on the steps, his head in his hands, and did not look up as Strickland approached.

'Well, Spike?'

Moseley raised his head, and stared at Strickland vacantly.

'You wanted to see me?'

A flicker of intelligence lit in his eyes.

'Thash right. Want see yer. Got suthing ... tell yer.'

'Go ahead.'

'Thishyer gang you're after ... preachin' bloody war, they are ... do it, too. 'S Gawd's truth. Won' stop't anythin'....'

His speech was blurred and indistinct.

'You know 'em?' asked Strickland.

'Know'm a sight too well. But t'-night ... foun' out ... bloke's name....'

His breath came in gasps.

'Who is he, Spike?' asked Strickland urgently.

'Nev' guess ... kill me, 'e would, 'f 'e knew wot I 'eard ... watch out, er e'll get you ... an' no jury'd convic' ... man like 'im....'

Spike's head sagged forward into his hands. The words were clotting on his tongue.

'What's his name?' asked Strickland desperately.

Spike tried to lift his head, but failed. His lips moved, but no words came. Then he swayed over drunkenly, and Strickland caught him as he fell.

Spike lay very still. Strickland laid a hand on his heart, and then straightened himself, his face very grave. For a moment he stood still, staring down at the huddled body. That message would never be delivered.

The man who had been crouching in the shadow noted the abrupt silence. He moved away, soft-footed as a cat, and then made his way back again, tramping heavily along the pavement. When he reached the top of the steps he checked, and allowed himself to catch sight of Detective-Inspector Strickland.

'Could y' spare us 'arf a dollar, sir?' he asked huskily. 'It's an awful night, sir, an' I ain't 'ad no work fer months.'

Strickland looked up sharply. It was hard to see the man clearly in the mist and the dark. He was a tall chap, a navvy, by the look of him.

'Yes, you can take a message for me,' he said. 'Here's half a crown. Go over to Scotland Yard'--he pointed across the road--'and ask Inspector Barrett to come here. Tell him to bring a constable with him, and say I sent you--Strickland. Hurry!'

'Inspector Barrett. Right y'are, sir,' said the navvy, and set off at a lumbering trot.

Strickland waited, shivering a little in the bitter wind. He was very angry; a cold fury that included the Commissioner, and Spike, and the men Spike had intended to betray. If only Spike had lived to tell him that name ... if only the Chief could be induced to take this matter seriously ... if only he himself had not received orders to go abroad.... Jack Strickland felt it to be a deliberate insult on the part of the gods.

The arrival of a policeman and a burly man in plain clothes interrupted his thoughts. In a few words he explained to Inspector Barrett what had happened.

'Sounds as if he'd been doped,' said Barrett at the conclusion. 'Well, I'll deal with this if you like. You were on your way home, weren't you?'

'Yes. If I'm wanted, let me know. By the way, I'm off next week.'

'So you couldn't convince the Chief?'

'No.'

'I'm sorry. I think he's wrong.'

'So do I,' said Strickland, 'but there it is. If only that poor devil'--he nodded towards Spike--'had been able to tell his story I might have made 'em believe me. As it is ... oh, hell! Good-night, Barrett. By the way, where's that navvy I sent to fetch you?'

'He pushed off as soon as he'd delivered your message,' said Barrett. 'At any rate, he wasn't there when I came out. Good-night, Strickland.'

But Inspector Barrett was wrong. The navvy had only just gone, and was at that moment standing by the statue of Boadicea trying to light a stumpy cigarette-end and sheltering the flickering match with his cupped hands. Strickland passed him, unnoticing. The navvy grinned, and then began to whistle a gay and lilting tune.

Strickland heard it as he made his way home. It was a familiar air, and as he listened the words suddenly clicked into place.

'When constabulary duty's to be done, to be done,
A policeman's lot is not a happy one!'

For a second Strickland checked in surprise, and swung round. But there was no one in sight, and with a grin he dismissed the matter and continued his journey.