Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 124, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 757 & 758, September/October 2004

“I need something up front. ’Ave to paint some palms, understand.”

Goodcastle pulled out his money purse and counted out some coin.

“Crikey, guv’nor.” Bill laughed. The massive hand reached out and snatched the whole purse. “Thank’ee much... Now, when do I get the rest?”

Goodcastle glanced at his pocket watch. “I can have it by four. Can you make the arrangements by then?”

“Rest assured I can,” Sloat said, waving for the barmaid.

“Come by the shop.”

Sloat squinted and looked the man over warily. “Maybe you won’t own up to what you done, but tell me, mate, just ’ow safe is it to be meetin’ you?”

The shopkeeper gave a grim laugh. “You’ve heard the expression ‘giving somebody a taste of their own medicine’?”

“I ’ave, sure.”

“Well, that’s what I’m going to do. Don’t worry. I know how to make sure we’re alone.”

Goodcastle sighed once more and then left the Green Man.

Sloat watched him leave, thinking, A thousand quid for a few hours’ work.

Desperation, he thought, is just plain bloody beautiful.

At five minutes to four that afternoon, Peter Goodcastle was uneasily awaiting Bill Sloat’s arrival.

While he’d made his arrangements to evade the law, Goodcastle had kept up the appearance of going through his business as usual. But he’d continued to observe the street outside. Sure enough, he’d noted several plain-clothed detectives standing well back in the shadows. They pretended to be watching the construction work on the street, but in fact it was obvious that their attention was mostly on Goodcastle and the store.

The shopkeeper now put his plan into action. He summoned Boyle and one of the men he regularly used for transporting furniture to and from clients’ houses. Purposely acting suspiciously, like an actor in a one-shilling melodrama, Goodcastle slipped the young deliveryman a paper-wrapped package, which contained a music box. He gave instructions to take it to Goodcastle’s own house as quickly as possible. Witnessing the apparently furtive mission, and probably assuming that the box contained loot or damning evidence, one of the detectives started after the young man as soon as he left the shop.

Goodcastle then dismissed Boyle for the day and gave him a similar package, with instructions to take it home with him and make sure the music box mechanism was dependable. The remaining detective observed Boyle leave the shop, clutching the parcel, and, after a moment of debate, appeared to decide it was better to pursue this potential source of evidence rather than remain at his station.

Goodcastle carefully perused the street and saw no more detectives. The workers had left and the avenue was deserted except for a married couple, who paused at the front window, then stepped inside. As they looked over the armoires, Goodcastle told them he would return in a moment and, with another glance outside into the empty street, stole into the office, closing the door behind him.

He sat at his desk, lifted aside the Turkish rug, and opened the secret panel and then the safe. He was just reaching inside when he was aware of a breeze wafting on his face, and he knew the door to the office had been opened.

Goodcastle leapt up, crying, “No!” He was staring at the husband of the couple who’d just walked into the shop. He was holding a large Webley pistol.

“Lord in heaven!” Goodcastle said, gasping. “You’ve come to rob me!”

“No, sir, I’m here to arrest you,” he said calmly. “Pray don’t move. I don’t wish to harm you. But I will if you give me no choice.” He then blew into a police whistle, which uttered a shrill tone.

A moment later, beyond him, Goodcastle could see the door burst open, and in ran two Scotland Yard inspectors in plain clothes, as well as two uniformed constables. The woman — who’d obviously been posing as the first inspector’s wife — waved them toward the office. “The safe is back there,” she called.

“Capital!” called one inspector — the lean, dark man who’d been in the store earlier, masquerading as a customer. His fellow officer, wearing a bowler, was dressed similarly, a greatcoat over a morning suit, though this man differed in his physique, being taller and quite pale, with a shock of flaxen hair. Both policemen took the shopkeeper by the arms and led him out into the store proper.

“What’s the meaning of this?” Goodcastle blustered.

The white-faced inspector chuckled. “I warrant you know right well.”

They searched him and, finding no weapons, unhanded him. The inspector who’d entered with the woman on his arm replaced his Webley with a notebook, in which he began taking down evidence. They dismissed the woman with effusive thanks and she explained that she’d be back at the police precinct station house if they needed her further.

“What is this about?” Goodcastle demanded.

The pale officer deferred to the lean one, apparently a chief inspector, who looked Goodcastle over carefully. “So you’re the man who burglarized Robert Mayhew’s apartment.”

“Who? I swear I don’t know what you’re speaking of.”