Freddy Cohen finished his glass of whisky.

"Wait while I get some more drinks," he said.

In this way, then, at about the hour of ten on a stuffy autumn
night, in the crowded bar of that Wapping public-house, these two
made a compact; and of its outcome and of the next appearance of
Cohen, the Jewish-American cracksman, within the ken of man, I
shall now proceed to tell.




II

THE END OF COHEN



"I've been expecting this," said Chief Inspector Kerry. He tilted
his bowler hat farther forward over his brow and contemplated the
ghastly exhibit which lay upon the slab of the mortuary. Two
other police officers--one in uniform--were present, and they
treated the celebrated Chief Inspector with the deference which
he had not only earned but had always demanded from his
subordinates.

Earmarked for important promotion, he was an interesting figure
as he stood there in the gloomy, ill-lighted place, his pose that
of an athlete about to perform a long jump, or perhaps, as it