The Dusky Hour by E.R. Punshon Page A

answered gravely, “but I think over there they use ‘hell’ merely as a general adverb of emphasis. Liable to shoot to kill when in a fix – a ‘killer,’ they called him – and probably middle-aged. And that’s about all.”
    â€œWhat about the M.O.?” asked the colonel, M.O. being the usual abbreviation for that method of procedure – the modus operandi – which it is the general police experience all over the world very few criminals ever vary, those who do being those who are really dangerous, at the very head of their profession.
    â€œThe general idea, from what they say, but it seems largely guesswork,” Bobby answered, “is that this unknown Britisher – Mr. X – picks up rich Americans over here, gets friendly with them, gets to know a lot about them, goes out of his way to put them under some obligation if he can, is very careful to do nothing in any way suspicious. If cards are played, for instance, he never wins. On this side that’s all there’s to it. All as innocent and above-board as you please. A year or two later – it’s all carefully worked out; months between each move sometimes; they can afford to wait, with cash winnings in the thousands in prospect – Mr. X turns up on the other side and meets his former American friend once again, apparently by accident. At first even he will hardly remember him, then, of course, he does remember and is delighted. But he is a stranger in a strange country, and he grows confidential presently. He wants advice. He wants a helping hand. The American is interested, and good-naturedly willing to do what he can. Mr. X explains he is over on a big deal – too big for him, he is afraid. Big profits in view, certainly, but a big risk, especially for a stranger who doesn’t know his way about too well. Sometimes it’s a big arms deal, and he daren’t touch it because, if his Government got to know, he would lose big contracts. Or he hasn’t enough capital. Or he is called back to England over a still bigger deal – telegram from the Rothschilds, perhaps, anyone can send a cable and sign Rothschild. Anyhow, on one excuse or another he fades out. His American friend takes his place, goes on with the deal, and, when finally he is a good fat sum out of pocket, he may be inclined to regard it as an ordinary business loss. Even if he has suspicions, he may prefer to say nothing for fear of being shown up to his business friends as a ‘mug.’ And he never associates his nice, frank, straightforward, pleasant English friend Mr. X with the gaping hole in his bank account. Why, the F.B.I. say they have heard of one case in which the victim finally settled up a loss of a hundred thousand dollars and on the same day wrote a letter of introduction to Mr. X, recommending a friend of his, visiting England and also a rich man, to Mr. X’s kind attentions. Probably he received them, but names are not known, so we can’t tell what happened. But the F.B.I. say they have reason to believe something like a hundred thousand sterling has been extracted from American business men by our Mr. X, and they also seemed to think that on that information we could do him up in a brown paper parcel and pack him off to them by return of post. Another thing they say is Mr. X is careful never to operate on two men from the same town. If he gets hold of a St. Louis man one year, then St. Louis men are safe from him for ever after. America’s a big place; the big business man from Pittsburgh and his opposite numbers from St. Paul or New Orleans may never meet. But people from the same town might meet and might compare notes.”
    â€œNothing much in all that to go on,” commented the colonel.
    â€œNo, sir, except the fact that we suspect Bennett had something to do with some such swindle. And it’s more than a little curious that one of Mr. Moffatt’s friends should