"Split up! Check every southbound carriage that hasn’t left yet!"
Arthur commanded while dashing towards the row of stagecoaches ready to depart. His eyes scanned sharply like a hawk between each carriage, scrutinizing every passenger by the door, every piece of luggage, every hat brim and scarf that might conceal a face.
Colly and Hoot had no ti to dawdle either, practically stumbling as they followed Arthur to divide the work.
This wasn’t their first sudden operation, but this ti involved the legendary Sir Arthur Hastings from Scotland Yard personally naming them, coupled with the telegraph ntioning "Kensington Palace stolen goods." Even a fool would realize: if this case isn’t resolved well, there’s not just no hope for promotion in the future, they might even lose their jobs.
Conversely, if the case were to succeed, such a huge credit falling onto their heads, it would not be wishful thinking to expect even a minor promotion, though not daring to dream of a three-rank promotion like Sir Arthur back in the day.
Colly, a seasoned employee after two years, understood this well, and though Officer Jas Hoot didn’t grasp the implications, his elder brother, Russian Military Police Captain Richard Hoot, reminded him repeatedly in letters: once at Scotland Yard, perform well, or you’ll regret it.
Just two days ago, Hoot received the latest letter from his brother in Russia, stating that Captain Hoot intended to resign and return to London to find a position at Scotland Yard.
Jas Hoot knew that if he were to be dismissed at this critical juncture, his brother’s first task in London would likely be to thrash him hard.
Jas Hoot considered this sudden police situation unlucky, but he didn’t realize how fortunate this "unluckiness" was.
If not for his brother’s face, Sir Arthur would not have bothered arranging for him to make a rit at the station.
At that mont, this clueless young officer was sweating profusely, checking every stagecoach passenger, straining his voice: "Please cooperate, Scotland Yard security check, present your luggage and identification, please!"
anwhile, having worked on cases with Chief Field for a few years, Colly was evidently more seasoned. He neither shouted nor interrogated but mimicked Arthur’s thod, swiftly scanning faces, focusing particularly on those intentionally bowed and veiled. Gray tweed coat, burn on the left face—these were the crucial traits.
Seeing his junior so incompetent, Colly first smacked Hoot on the back of the head, then whispered a few instructions in his ear.
Soon after, Hoot displayed a sudden realization, rushing toward the station’s duty room.
Veteran policeman like Arthur could tell that Colly had sent him to ask the station staff to delay the departure of the southbound carriages.
"You head towards the horses, I’ll check the tail," Arthur instructed Hoot, then briskly headed for the end of the convoy.
Langworth, following the police in a field operation for the first ti, appeared both nervous and excited. The arm of the well-known journalist from The Tis hidden in his sleeve trembled slightly, yet his face feigned a calm deanor.
Langworth knew not to impede police duty, but as a journalist, his innate curiosity and sensitivity were hard to suppress.
Just as he was about to pull out a small notebook from his coat pocket to jot sothing down, Arthur’s low voice reached his ears: "Car number three, left side."
Beside the third carriage, a man was loading a heavy wooden box into the trunk. Though not large, the box seed carefully crafted, adorned with faint ivory patterns and silver embellishnts. The man, tall with a slim build, wore a gray tweed coat, his hat brim covering his face, and his neck scarf tightly wrapped.
Langworth’s footsteps slightly halted, his peripheral vision capturing a diagonal scar on the man’s side face, extending from the cheekbone to the jaw, resembling a burn from hot oil, leaving a dark red hue on the tightened skin and flesh.
Gray tweed coat, five feet nine inches, burn on the left face, the description matches!
Langworth was about to move forward, but Arthur stopped him.
"Hold on, let’s wait until Hoot eliminates other targets first." Arthur seed relaxed, even taking his ti to light a cigar: "We can’t be certain it’s him yet. If we catch the wrong person now, it would alert him prematurely."
Langworth paused, about to speak, but saw Arthur slowly turn around, pulling a silver pocket watch from his gray tweed coat pocket, checking the ti.
10:37.
Eight minutes until the southbound stagecoaches depart.
Langworth whispered, "Looks like ti’s running out."
"No rush, if he’s a professional, he’d board at the last minute." Arthur, smoking, spoke in a voice barely audible: "At this ti, he’s still observing the environnt, testing if anyone’s tailing him. He’s not sure if he’s exposed, so he won’t act rashly."
As Arthur spoke, he gently flicked off the ash.
Langworth was about to ask more when he heard hurried footsteps behind him—it was Hoot, returning at a jog.
The young officer finally showed so initiative, having left his uniform jacket and police helt at the station’s duty room, swapping clothes with the duty officer before returning to report: "The duty officer said the departure can be delayed by five minutes, but soone needs to take responsibility, so I gave my na."
User Comments
0 comments from readers