Edgar Wallace

“ Haggitt's name was Samuel Johnson Haggitt.
"I'm named after the celebrated poet, but I'm no relation."
He gave his amusing address as Buckingham Palace, and described himself as a painter, until he remembered that winter was near at hand.
"Stoker," he said emphatically. "Do you know what old Meister gave me for minding him? Ten shillings. I'd have chucked it in his eye, only it was paper. That's sweating. No wonder us workers are going Red!"
"Search him," said the sergeant.
"And mind how you do it," warned Haggitt, as the officer ran his hands scientifically down waistcoat and trousers. ”

“ Haggitt seems to know that. What number are you calling?"
"Meister's."
Wembury was examining the cash box.
"He kept this box in the drawer of his desk. He must have been pickled if he didn't hear Sam."
"Can't you get that number, miss?" asked the sergeant plaintively. "Well, try 'em again." And then wearily: "Oh, yes, there's somebody there."
As he waited, elbow on desk, receiver at ear, he looked pensively at the ceiling.
"I can't get that little fellow out of my mind—Peter. Lord! I've never seen a man so paralysed with fright. I thought he was going to have a fit. ”

“ Jauntily he walked, but his heart thumped painfully, and the clammy touch of the cold hand clung to his wrist and could not be removed. He was rubbing his hand impatiently all the way to Euston....
An hour later he came indignantly, almost virtuously, into the charge room of Harlboro' Street in the grip of a detective.
"What's the great idea, Wembury?" he asked indignantly. "Can't a fellow go to see his friends off on the rattler without having a perishin' lot of busies come messing him about? God bless my life and soul—you fellows won't give a man a chance when he's trying to go straight." ”

“ It might have been a cooling cinder in the fire. He moved stealthily, one hand extended before him, an instinctive gesture common to all who work in the dark. He was opposite the mystery door, when suddenly a cold hand closed on his wrist! ”

“ He's a bad man all right. I don't wonder Peter's afraid of him."
"Hallo!" said the sergeant, suddenly brightening up. "It's Sergeant Carter speaking. Will you take a message, please, for Mr. Atkins! ... Thank you. Ask him to find out whether Mr. Meister has lost his cash box or anything else. Have you got that—whether Mr. Meister has lost his cash box—you understand? ... And ask the sergeant to ring me up ... thank you very much." He hung up the receiver.
"We shan't get Mr. Meister to-night," said Wembury. "I think it will be safe to charge Haggitt. He has practically confessed." ”

“ The sergeant opened it, took out a thick wad of notes and laid them on the desk.
"Old Meister's cash box!" Sam's tone was one of horror and amazement. "Now how did that get there? There's a mystery for you, Wembury! That ought to be in your memories when you write them for the Sunday newspapers. Strange and mysterious discovery of a cash box!"
"There's nothing mysterious about it," said Wembury. "Anything else?"
One by one they produced certain silver articles which were very damning.
"And the man gave you this case to hold!" bantered Alan. "A tall, dark man, with patent shoes? ”