“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.

The bandit watched him resentfully. He didn’t seem to recognize Wayne. It was probably the hat.

“So, son,” Wayne said. “You’re in a heap of trouble.”

The bandit didn’t reply.

“I can get you off easy. No hangman’s noose for you, if you are willing to be smart.”

The bandit spat at him.

Wayne leaned in, hands on the table. “Here now,” he said very softly, changing his speech to the natural, fluid accent that the bandits had been using. A cup of canal worker for authenticity, a healthy dose of bartender for trust, and the rest Sixth Octant, north side, where most had sounded like they’d come from. “Is that the way to speak to the bloke who killed a conner and took his uniform, all to get you outta here, mate?”