Limekiller!

The D.C. looked a moment at him. Then he swiveled his chair around and worked at the dial of the old safe. The official papers laced with their red tape were where they had been. Nothing much else was there. The D.C. scraped his hands along the bottom. Some grains of sand. Some crumbles of dirt. The bad old shirt. Nothing else. Nothing else. The D.C. turned around. His mouth worked. Then he said, “Mr. Limekiller. Where is that gold?”

Jack felt his lips crack. But all he said was, staunchly, “What gold?”

Another silence. Then, moved by the devil, Limekiller said, “District Commissioner, I will thank you for that shirt — “

The District Commissioner took out the shirt, shook it, handed it over. Then he made an emphatic gesture, Limekiller left. He sneaked a look at Police Constable Lucas, but Police Constable Lucas, carefully looking at the wall, did not sneak back. The D.C. was, suddenly, shouting, “I shall call in the C.I.D.! I shall have the safe dusted for fingerprints! I shall discharge every police constable on duty lahst night! I shall take it up to the Colonial Privy Council! I shall take it up to the Law Lords in London! I —” The door closed on him and on what else he should do. Only, of course, he wouldn’t. For —

No evidence?

No case!

Because —

British Justice!

The outside world had begun to bring in its rot and corruption. But it had only begun.

Outside. well, not outside the District Office Building. outside the office of the District Commissioner. Limekiller found himself in the familiar-enough out-district police room. These rooms served for many purposes which were not always involved with crime, and, while not always the same, were always similar. This one had of course been whitewashed-but not very recently. It was immaculate. As always. On the wall (invariably), two framed photographs: Her Majesty the Oueen, who theoretically owned British Hidalgo and might, theoretically, sell it all to a real estate syndicate — but probablv wouldn’t; that was one of the photographs. The other, just a mite smaller, was of the Honourable Llewellyn Gonzaga MacBride, the Queen’s First Minister in British Hidalgo. She was in full regalia. He was wearing a short-sleeved shirt open at the neck, no tie. They both wore smiles.

Overhead the slow fan.

At the dais, no one.

Not now, at any rate.

Behind a table doing extra duty as a desk, a police constable. He and Jack exchanged civil looks.

“Yes, Mr. Limekiller?”

“Am I, well, free to go? Eh?”

The P.C. slightly pursed his lips, slightly raised his eyebrows. It was the studiously non-committal face of a man being asked to guess the value of a sand-sailing-barge. He rose to his feet in a smooth motion. “If you will just make yourself at ease a moment, Mr. Limekiller, I will just go into the. He did not finish the sentence, but its meaning was obvious. The door of the inner office was opened for a moment, a voice (previously muffled) was heard, loud and clear, demanding to know “Why is there no Canadian High Commissioner in this Colony? — do they think that they can come down here and commit all kinds of tricks, just because they are from a Commonwealth country? I — what? what? He is still here? Out, out, OUT — get him out! I shall and the door closed again and the police-constable returned to his desk.

Slightly he shook his head, said, “Jock, you w’only vex de man!” “Only,” in Bay talk, an intensive: during a heat wave, it was “only” hot; during a downpour, it was “only” raining.

Jack said, “Eh?”

The police constable was once again studying the sand-barge. Very politely, though, he indicated the door to the outside world. “Mr. Limekiller,” he said, “you are now at large.”