“If they’re lost,” said the morose Balder, “then Records have lost ’em! I suppose they think I’m a Frog or somethin’. They’re always accusing me of mislaying their finger-print cards.”
“I’ve promised you a chance to make a big noise, Balder, and now I’m going to give it to you. You’ve been passed over for promotion, son, because the men upstairs think you were one of the leaders of the last strike. I know that ‘passed over’ feeling—it turns you sour. Will you take a big chance?”
Balder nodded, holding his breath.
“Hagn’s in the special cell,” said Elk. “Change into your civilian kit, roughen yourself up a bit, and I’ll put you in with him. If you’re scared I’ll let you carry a gun and fix it so that you won’t be searched. Get Hagn to talk. Tell him that you were pulled in over the Dundee murder. He won’t know you. Get that story, Balder, and I’ll have the stripes on your arm in a week.”
Balder nodded. The querulous character of his voice had changed when he spoke again.
“It’s a chance,” he said; “and thank you, Mr. Elk, for giving it to me.”
An hour later, a detective brought a grimy-looking prisoner into Cannon Row and pushed him into the steel pen, and the only man who recognized the prisoner was the chief inspector who had waited for the arrival of the pigeon.
It was that high official himself who conducted Balder to the separate cell and pushed him in.
“Good night, Frog!” he said.
Balder’s reply was unprintable.