“Next time, perhaps,” Brettin said, sounding satisfied for having won the argument and disarmed an angry rival. “We are rather busy with those prisoners.”
“Well and good,” Wayne said. “When are you sending them to us?”
“What?” Brettin said.
“We have prior claim! You have jurisdiction for the initial inquest, but we have prosecution rights. First robbery happened in our octant.” Wax had written that out for him. Bloke could be right useful, on occasion.
“You have to give us a written request for that!”
“We sent a missive,” Wayne said.
Brettin hesitated.
“Earlier today,” Wayne said. “You didn’t get it?”
“Er … We get a lot of missives…”
“Thought you said you hired someone to read them.”
“Sent him out for scones earlier, you see…”
“Ah. Well then.” Wayne hesitated. “Can I have one?”
“Of the scones or the prisoners?”
Wayne leaned in. “Look, Brettin, let’s melt this down and forge it. We both know you can stall for months with those prisoners while we complete proper transfer paperwork. That is basically worthless to both of us. You get a lot of hassle, and we lose any chance we had of catching the rest of these fellows. We need to move quick.”
“And?” Brettin asked, suspicious.
“I want to question a few of the prisoners,” Wayne said. “Chief sent me specifically. You let me in, give me a few minutes, and we’ll stop all transfer requests. You can prosecute, but we get to keep hunting for their boss.”
The two locked gazes. According to Wax, prosecuting the Vanishers would be good for careers—very good. But the real prize, the boss of the gang, was still at large. Getting him would mean glory, promotions, and maybe an invitation to join the upper crust. The late Lord Peterus himself had done it, when he’d captured the Copper Strangler.
Letting a rival constable interview the prisoners would be risky. Potentially losing the prisoners completely—as Brettin chanced doing—was even more so.
“How long?” Brettin said.
“Fifteen minutes each,” Wayne said.
Brettin’s eyes narrowed just slightly. “Ten minutes with two of the prisoners.”
“Fine,” Wayne said. “Let’s do it.”
It took longer to set things up than it should have. Constables tended to take their time about anything unless it involved burning buildings or murders in the streets—and they ran for those two only if someone rich was involved. Eventually, they had a room set up for him and pulled one of the bandits in.
Wayne recognized him. The fellow had tried to shoot him, so Wayne had broken his arm with a dueling cane. Downright rude, trying to shoot like that. When a fellow pulls out a dueling cane, you should respond with one of your own—or at least a knife. Trying to shoot Wayne was like bringing dice to a card game. What was the world coming to?
“Has he said anything so far?” Wayne asked Brettin and several of his minions, standing outside the door and looking in at the tubby, scraggly-haired bandit. He had his arm in a dirty sling.
“Not much,” Brettin said. “Actually, none of them have given us much of anything. They seem…”
“Afraid,” one of the other constables said. “They’re afraid of something—or, at least, more afraid of talking than they are of us.”
“Bah,” Wayne said. “You just need to be firm with them! No coddling.”
“We haven’t been—” the constable began, but Brettin raised a hand to quiet him. “Your time is slipping away, Captain.”
Wayne sniffed, then sauntered into the room. It was small, practically a closet, with only the one door. Brettin and the others left it open. The bandit sat in a chair, manacled hands linked by chains to his feet and both locked to the floor. There was a table between them.