The Shadow of Great Britain

Chapter 1680: Chapter 53: London Cannot Lose Hastings (2)

Arthur nodded slightly, but did not respond.

At this moment, the clock on the station square struck precisely at 10:40.

The high-hanging iron bell resonated under the glass dome, causing a few pigeons to flutter and fly.

The coachman of the southbound stagecoach had already begun calling names, urging late passengers to board quickly.

The man seemed to have also heard the chime, standing upright, and slowly tidying his scarf. He did not rush to board, but instead stepped back into the shadows, taking a pocket watch from his coat to check the time.

”An old hand,” Arthur quietly remarked, ”Never the first in or out; always the last. He’s waiting for other passengers to board, then squeezing into the line, making people mistake him for just an ordinary latecomer.”

”What about us then...” Langworth turned nervously to Arthur.

Arthur noticed Colley pretending to steer clear of Coach No. 3, but in reality blocking the inevitable exit path of Coach No. 3.

Arthur understood in his heart that this guy had finally locked onto his target.

So he gave instructions: ”Hutter, you go up and question him later, keep a close eye on his suitcase. That box might contain explosives, firearms, or the like, don’t give him a chance to open it.”

”Understood.” Hutter swallowed: ”Should I kick the horse two times to make the box fall?”

”Don’t do anything stupid!” Arthur glanced at him: ”If the horse gets startled and pulls the carriage away, then our whole operation will be for nothing!”

At 10:43, the coachman had begun collecting tickets. The reins in his hands remained taut, but the impatient horse was already lifting its hooves.

A lady in the back row of the carriage finally mounted the last step, and as she settled into her seat, the station staff standing at the rear of Coach No. 3 raised his hand and shouted: ”The last passenger is aboard, get ready to close the doors!”

The man in the gray wool coat finally moved.

He raised the ticket high in his hand, running towards the car door like an ordinary traveler delayed en route: ”Wait, I haven’t boarded yet!”

Arthur flicked the cigarette butt away, then gave Hutter a signaling look.

Hutter, dressed in station uniform, understood the cue. He navigated through the crowd from the side, blocking the path between the man in the gray wool coat and the carriage door: ”Excuse me, sir!”

”Station inspection, routine luggage check.” As he spoke, he reached out, pointing to the suitcase: ”Please cooperate and open the case for inspection.”

The man raised an eyebrow, his voice hoarse: ”I’m pressed for time.”

Hutter seemed a bit troubled: ”Everyone pressed for time says that, but it’s station protocol, no exceptions.”

The man did not immediately resist or cooperate but slowly turned his face, fully exposing his slightly fierce burned left cheek to Hutter: ”Since when does Golden Cross Station randomly check travelers’ cases?”

Hutter was momentarily stumped by that remark, not because he hadn’t encountered criminals, but because something about this guy unnerved him.

He quickly searched his mind for a response, but not being an old hand, he could only muster the courage to say, ”We received intelligence that someone intends to smuggle contraband... so we have to conduct spot checks.”

”Intelligence?” the man sneered softly, ”From whom?”

”Me.” This time, it was not Hutter’s voice.

The man quickly turned his head.

But what he saw was not Arthur’s face; it was the callused fist from practicing swordsmanship.

That punch, with no preamble or superfluous words, landed cleanly and sharply on that scarred face.

With a dull thud, the man staggered back half a step but did not fall.

His footing wavered, his body twisting violently as he tried to plunge into the crowd on the left side of the carriage.

However, he had barely stepped when he was hit squarely by a flying tackle. Colley emerged from nowhere, the young Intelligence Bureau officer personally mentored by Chief Field, pounced like a black dog, pinning the man firmly to the slippery cobblestone road mixed with horse urine.

”You bloody think you can still run?!” Colley gritted his teeth, pressing his right knee against the man’s spine, wrenching the man’s wrist backward with his left hand, and before the man could make a sound, swiftly extracted a pair of quick-release cuffs from his overcoat pocket with his right: ”Scotland Yard officer Mike Colley, officially arresting you for the theft of Royal Family property!”

The man in the gray wool coat realized things had gone awry and finally dropped the pretense, letting out a low growl, like a beast’s death cry.

His other hand suddenly reached from his lapel, gripping a shiny little knife!

But this time, it was Hutter’s turn to act.

Though clumsy with words, his quick reflexes compensated.

He kicked, sending the knife clattering far away, stopping just in front of Langworth.

The journalist was caught off guard, retreating two steps in fright, but soon, he recalled that he had witnessed encounters with the Cossack Cavalry among the Chechens, so how could he be scared by a little knife?

Langworth, feigning calmness, bent down to pick up the knife, noting the series of letters inscribed on the handle.

”P.S.M, Pickett Street Mob? This guy’s part of the Pickett Street thugs!”

Pickett Street was infamous throughout London, though not in a good way.

As a notorious alley near the Thames River Dock District in the East End of London, Pickett Street’s reputation preceded it. It was frequented mainly by vagrants, unemployed seamen, and dock workers; all in all, a group full of energy, in prime condition yet impoverished, and idling with nothing to do.