The Trail of Suspects
Once you climb in, you are aware of a little boy sitting next to you.
He looks only about eight or nine.
"Good day, laddie!" You say cheerfully.
"Hello," he says, adjusting his cap.
"What've you got under there?" you ask in the same
ingratiating manner as before.
The boy looks surprised.
"I guess for a living," you say.
"It's foolscap," says the boy. "I like to draw. And I
ain't got any pockets"
"If you give me some, I'll give you a pound," you say,
waving the note.
"A whole quid for paper!" he exclaims.
"Not just paper," you say as the boy thrusts his hand into
his hat. "I need you to do something else for me. See that
house?"
The boy nods.
"Ring the doorbell. If no one answers, it means murder. If a
man answers, it is a theft. If a servant answers, it's either both or
nothing. Telegraph me with what you find. I'm at 522 McKenna."
The boy's face goes pale. "I don't know, sir,"
"Do it," you say, "and I'll give you a good supper if
you come to my house. Forget the telegraph. Everybody's got those
confounded telephones now."
The boy shakily gets out of the hansom. "Yessir."
"One more thing," you yell. "If the man has boots on,
it's twice as bad."
"What should I say?" asks the boy.
"Wrong address--anything!" you say. "Best of
luck!"
The hansom drives away as you hear the sound of the cracking whip.
You settle into the seat. You might as well be comfortable on the
road to quite a bit of discomfort.
Frederic Malasic's house is the closest. You see a hansom pass by,
and you hail it. You've no use for those electric cars. They defeat
the purpose of secret investigations.
