Edgar Wallace

“ All London knew it. Flanders Lane whispered the news under its breath; carried the tidings to sick men hiding in darkened and foul attics; to men who were not sick but must needs be hidden. And Flanders Lane believed it. The Ringer was back. "God help Meister," said somebody.
They discussed it in low tones, squatting on their steps despite the drizzle.
"He'll use a knife; he always uses a knife. Never known him to use a gun in my life," said one who had the proud distinction of having worked in a minor capacity with the redoubtable criminal.
"What's Haggitt doing down there?" ”

“ He remembered that this was peculiar to the lawyer: a habit which he had never shaken off.
Alone! The stranger showed his teeth in a mirthless grin, and peered more closely at the window fastening. There were no burglar alarms, no wires. But the grille was a sufficient protection. It might be opened after hours, perhaps days, of reconnaissance, and then only if the old fool committed the gross error of leaving his room empty. He had Haggitt sleeping in the house, and it was likely, if he had the brain of a rabbit, that Haggitt would occupy this room after Meister had done with it. ”

“ The lawyer's bedroom was locked, and Wembury shook the handle.
"Open the door!"
There was no answer. The detective threw his weight against the door, but it did not yield.
"Bolted," said Haggitt. "He had new ones fixed yesterday."
"Have you an axe?" asked Alan.
"You needn't worry about an axe. I got an idea I can get into the room through the window. The room next door is empty, and I think I could reach from one sill to another."
Alan looked at the man keenly.
"Have you been taking a professional survey?" he asked.
"In a sense," said Haggitt, by no means offended. ”