“What Rodie do you mean?” I asked at length. “Is his other name McKendrick?”
“That’s it; and Joss Brown is with him,” said Billy with animation. “He says you’re a bloodhound, and can bite. Twenty years would be a good bite, wouldn’t it?”
“Ah, I see, he has injured you, and you want to pay him back,” I said, not admiring Billy much, though his treachery was to bring grist to my mill.
“He kicked Kate, my sister, and she died, and I’ve told her often since then that I would bite him for it, and now I’ve got the chance I must keep my word.”
I took Billy into one of the waiting-rooms and drew from him his story. Billy told the story much better than I could put it down though I were to spend months on the task. He showed me also the piles of base florins put up in screws ready for use, and offered them to me. But while he had been telling the story I had been studying the position. I had perfect faith in Billy’s truthfulness. The tears he shed over the narrative of Kate’s death would have convinced the most sceptical. I therefore explained to him that in order to secure Rodie the full strength of a good bite it was necessary that I should take him and Joss in the act, and if possible with the supply of base coin in their possession. To that end I arranged to see the three next day at the race-course, and explained to Billy how he was to act when he got from me the required signal.
I had the idea that Billy was densely stupid—almost idiotic—and that therefore the scheme would be sure to be bungled, but in this I misjudged the boy sadly. If Billy had been the most acute of trained detectives he could not have gone through his part with more coolness or precision. When I had my men ready and dropped my handkerchief, Billy quickly wriggled himself out of a crowd and hastily thrust the valise containing the reserve of base florins into the hands of Rodie, who hid the same under his jacket and looked nervously round. The comical fiend helped him. They had not long to look. We were on them like bloodhounds the next moment. Joss was easily managed, but Rodie fought hard, and struggled, and kicked, and finally threw away the valise of base coin in the direction of Billy, with a shout to him to pick it up and run. Billy looked at him, but never moved.
“You kicked Kate, and she died. It’s Billy’s Bite,” he calmly answered, when Rodie worked himself black in the face, and the comical fiend nearly choked himself with hastily concocted jokes.
The two got due reward in the shape of fifteen and twenty years respectively, but Billy was sent to the Industrial School, and is now an honest working man.
THE MURDERED TAILOR’S WATCH. (A CURIOSITY IN CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE.)
The case of the tailor, Peter Anderson, who was beaten to death near the Royal Terrace, on the Calton Hill, may not yet be quite forgotten by some, but, as the after-results are not so well known, it will bear repeating.