MR. GALPIN

When the patrol and Simon between them had explained the mysterious and fatal situation to Mr. Jack Galpin, Mr. Jack Galpin leaned against one of the marble tables in the waiting-room, and roared with laughter.

‘Well,’ observed Mr. Galpin, ’he didn’t have his Safe Deposit built for nothing, anyhow!’

And he laughed again.

‘But he’s slowly dying in there!’ said Simon.

‘Yes, I know,’ said Mr. Galpin.  ‘That’s what makes it such a good joke.’

‘I don’t see it, sir,’ Simon remarked.

‘Simply because your sense of humour is a bit off.  What are you?’

‘I am Mr. Hugo’s man.’

‘My respects.’

Mr. Galpin had arrived with Inspector Winter, and Inspector Winter had introduced him as knowing more about safes than any other man in England, or perhaps in Europe.  After the introduction, Inspector Winter, being pressed for time, had departed.  Mr. Galpin was aged about forty, and looked like an extremely successful commercial traveller.  No one would have suspected that he had recently done eighteen months anywhere but in a first-class hotel; even his thin hands were white, and if his hair was a little short—­well, the hair of very many respectable persons is often a little short.  It appeared that he was under obligations to Inspector Winter, and anxious to oblige.  The relations between distinguished law-breakers and distinguished detectives are frequently such as can only exist between artists who esteem each other.  For the rest, Mr. Galpin had brought a brown bag.

‘You see, the time-lock is placed so that—­’ began the patrol.

‘Shut up!’ said Mr. Galpin curtly.  ’I know all that.  I’ve got scale-plans of every Safe Deposit in London, and I decided long since that this one was too good to try.  Of course, with the aid of the entire staff things might be a bit easier, but not much—­not much!’ he repeated scornfully.  ’If I can manage a job at all, I can usually manage it alone, and in spite of the entire staff.’

‘I suppose you couldn’t burn the door of the vault with oxy-hydrogen?’ Simon suggested.

‘Yes, I could,’ said Mr. Galpin; ’and with the brand of steel used here I should get through about this time to-morrow.  I could blow the bally vault up with gun-cotton in something under two seconds, but no doubt your Mr. Hugo would go up with it, and then the Yard would be angry.  No!’

He hummed an air, and strolled out into the main corridor to stare at the curious dial of the time-lock.

‘Why not blow up the clock of the time-lock?’ ventured the patrol.

‘Look here!’ said Mr. Galpin, ’you ought to know better than that, even if this other gent doesn’t.  Any violence to the clock automatically jams all the connecting levers.  Stop the clock, and it’s all up.  Nothing but unbuilding the whole place would free the locks after that.  And it would be a mighty smart firm that could unbuild this place inside a fortnight.  No!’ he said again.  ’No gammon with the clock—­unless we could make it go quicker.’