Fay dragged out his watch by the chain and attempted to find the time. He bent down, struck a match and held it to the crystal. It was close to eleven o’clock. The fog had lifted from the dyke-land.
A squeak of brakes and the smell of hot oil announced the first turn leading into the city. Fay rose, after
replacing his watch, and stared over the windshield. He recognized the quays in the distance. He saw the tall spire of the Hôtel de Ville.
“Right here!� he told the boy as the car stopped. “You can go back. Take these and buy a set of tires!�
Fay handed over the sovereign capped with a second one. He shot a keen glance at the driver. The boy had removed his cap and was bowing with his broad face distended into a broader smile.
“S’long!� said Fay, hurrying off.
He heard the roar of the engine and the rattle of loose mud-guards and clattery wheels. He did not glance back. The time was short. It was some little distance to the embassy building.
To a man who had prowled the South Kensington Museum and gotten away with its choicest jade and jasper—to the first cracksman then living—the problems of the dye cipher and of opening the embassy’s safe were not impossible. Fay had taken harder boxes without leaving a trace. The stethoscope he carried was twenty times more delicate than the drum of a human ear. The combination-locks were fitted with pads, but these would not prevent some slight sound when the tumblers dropped into their designated notches. The Hatton Gardens affair had proved the truth of this.
There was also a little affair in Paris in the old days before the war. Fay recalled its details as he glided through the dark streets in the general direction of the embassy.
Dutch Gus, of dire memory, had boosted him up to