C-45—better known in international underworld circles as Chester Fay, alias Edward Letchmere—was serving ten years at hard labor for the crime, committed against the peace and dignity of the country, of opening—by means unguessed by Scotland Yard—a jeweler’s strong-box in Hatton Gardens; which is, aside from “The Old Lady of Threadneedle Street,â€� the strictest patrolled district in the city of London.
Chester Fay, alias Edward Letchmere, studied the crack of dawn as it crept over the man-made barricade, through the slotted windows of the great gray cell block, and bathed the harsh walls of the prison with the rosy light of pearl changed into ruby and from ruby into gold.
And there was something prophetic in the mellow magic of the chromatic changes in the English sky!
A bell clanged at the front of the prison. A key grated in a lock. An iron door opened. Shuffling feet sounded, like an old woman’s in a lane. C-45 lowered the edge of his shoddy blanket—stamped here and there with the broad arrow—and watched where the grated bars of the door formed tiny crosses against the dull gray of the wall.
The shuffling came nearer the cell. It stopped. A key clicked against another. The footfalls were resumed. A surly beef-and-beer face blotted out the light from the corridor as Chester Fay raised himself upon his hinged shelf.
“C-45?� inquired the turnkey.
“Y—es,â€� breathed Fay.
The aged turnkey squinted at the paper he held in trembling fingers. He eyed the door number and blinked his matted lashes.
“C-45,� he said, “get your clothes on. Y’re going hout!�
Had the slaty roof of the stony coffin, which he had learned to call home, fallen down upon him, Fay would not have been more surprised. He twisted his lithe body, touched his bare toes to the cold stones of the flagging, and stood erect, the heart within his breast throbbing like an imprisoned bird.