There was a man named Harry Stone (also called Harry the Valet), who was a detective until they found him out, which was about three months after he had entered the C.I.D. of a police force in Rhodesia. ...
There was a man named Harry Stone (also called Harry the Valet), who was
a detective until they found him out, which was about three months after
he had entered the C.I.D. of a police force in Rhodesia. He might have
been prosecuted, but at that time this particular police force was not at
all anxious to expose the dishonesty of its officers, so that when he got
away by the night mail to Cape Town they took no trouble to call him
Harry went south with about three hundred ill-gotten pounds in the hope
of meeting Lew Daney, who was a good trooper and a great, if unfortunate,
artist. But Lew was gone, had been gone a very long time, was indeed at
that moment organising and carrying into effect a series of raids more
picturesque than his essay against the National Bank of Johannesburg, and
considerably better organised.
Harry broke back again to Rhodesia by the Beira route, and through the
Massi-Kassi to Salisbury, which was a misfortune for him, for Captain
Timothy Jordan, Chief of the Rhodesian C.I.D., did him the honour of
making a personal call on him at his hotel.
"You are registered as Harrison, but your name is Stone. By the way, how
is your friend Lew Daney?"
"I don't know who you mean," said Harry the Valet.
"Tiger." Tim Jordan smiled.
"Be that as it may," he said, "the train leaves for Portuguese territory
in two hours. Take it!"
The mystified Harry did not argue. He was mystified because he had never
come across Tiger Tim Jordan, though he had heard of that dynamic young
man and knew most of the legends concerning him by heart.
Tiger, being rather a wealthy man, could afford to be conscientious. He
made a very careful study of the photographs of undesirables that came
his way, and made a point of meeting all the mail trains in, and
superintending the departure of all the mail trains out, most of which
contained somebody he had no desire should further pollute the fair air
of Southern Rhodesia, and Harry's photograph had gone to Salisbury in the
ordinary way of business.
At Beira Mr. Stone boarded an East Coast boat that plied between Durban
and Greenock. He had tried most things once or twice, but there had been
several happenings in London that made it desirable that the ex-detective
should seek a port of entry not under the direct scrutiny of Scotland
Yard, which though it was extraordinarily busy at that time, could spare
a few officers to watch incoming liners and give a hearty welcome to
returned wanderers who would rather have been spared the reception.