TILLIZINI LEAVES A MARK
The period of ultimatum was drawing to a close. For four days longer
England had the opportunity of agreeing to the terms which the Red Hand
had laid down.
In his big library at Downing Street, occupying the chair which great
and famous men had occupied for the past century, the prime minister,
grave and preoccupied, sat in conference with Tillizini.
The Italian was unusually spick and span that morning. He had dressed
himself with great care, an ominous sign for the organization he had
set himself to exterminate. For this was one of his eccentricities,
and it had passed into a legend among the criminal classes in Italy,
that a neat Tillizini was a dangerous Tillizini. There is a saying in
Florence, “Tillizini has a new coat--who is for the galleys?”
The prime minister was fingering his pen absently, making impossible
little sketches upon his blotting pad.
“Then you associate the disappearance of Miss Marjorie Meagh with the
operations of the Red Hand?”
“I do,” said the other.
“And what of the man, Mansingham?”
“That, too,” said Tillizini. “They were seen together in a field where
Mansingham was working, his book and his coat were found as he had left
them, and then he and she walked together to the stile. He is seen by
another labourer to walk back slowly across the field, to suddenly
stoop and pick up something, probably the lady’s handkerchief or bag,
it is immaterial which. He runs back to the stile, jumps over, and
evidently follows the lady. From that moment neither he nor she is seen
again. One woman I questioned at a cottage by the roadside remembers
a big car passing about that time. I place the three circumstances
together.”
“But surely,” said the prime minister, “they would hardly take the man.
What object had they? What object in taking the lady so far as that was
concerned?”
Tillizini looked out of the window. From where he sat he commanded a
view of Green Park, a bright and spirited scene. The guard had just
been relieved at the Horse Guards, and they were riding across the
parade ground, their cuirasses glittering in the sun, their polished
helmets so many mirrors reflecting the rays of light. He watched them
sadly, and the great crowd that marched on either side of them. Not all
the arms of England, all her military and naval strength, her laws and
splendid institutions, could save her from the malignity of the Red
Hand.
He turned with a start to the prime minister, and found that gentleman
regarding him curiously.
“In a sense,” he said, “I do not mind this abduction, always providing
that neither of these people is injured. I cannot understand why they
should have bothered; but it is these side issues of private vengeance
which invariably bring the big organizations to grief.”
“Seriously, Professor Tillizini,” said the premier, “do you think that
these men will carry their threat into execution?”
“Seriously, I do,” said Tillizini. “Your experts scoffed at the idea
of the Red Hand being able to cultivate this particular germ. The Red
Hand’s reply must have been a little startling to them.” He smiled.
“If I remember rightly, they sent a little of the culture to your
Bacteriological Institute. Animals which were inoculated died with
all the symptoms which have been described by the fifteenth-century
writers.”
The premier nodded his head.
“We cannot give the money; that is impossible. You recognize that,
Professor?”
Tillizini assented.
“It would mean the negation of all law; it would create a precedent
which would put an end to all the authority of civilization; it were
better that all England should be ravaged by this disease than that
a single penny should leave the Treasury. That is my view. I am
prepared,” he said quietly, “to accept not only the responsibility of
that action, but the first consequence of these men’s machinations.
This I have intimated through the public press. The only hope is that
we may secure the culture, and not only secure it, but locate the
laboratory where the cultivation is being made. It is a hope.” He
shrugged his shoulders. “I know you are doing all you can, Tillizini,”
he said quickly, “and Scotland Yard----”
“Scotland Yard is working splendidly,” said Tillizini. “Your police
organization is rather wonderful.”
He rose to his feet.
“Four days,” he said, “is a very long time.”
“You will take any steps you deem necessary for the public safety?”
“You may be sure of that, sir,” said Tillizini.
The premier twisted his blotter in his preoccupation.
“They say of you, Professor,” he said deliberately, “that you do not
hesitate to commit what in the eyes of the law-abiding world might be
considered as criminal acts, in order to further justice.”
“I have never hesitated,” said Tillizini, “if you mean----”
“I mean nothing in particular,” said the premier; “only I tell you
this, if you deem it necessary to go outside the law to administer
preventive punishment, I assure you that I will secure you the
necessary indemnity from Parliament.”
Tillizini bowed.
“I have to thank your excellency for that,” he said, “and you may be
sure I shall not abuse the power, and that no crime I commit will ever
need an act of indemnity.”
The premier looked up in astonishment.
“Why?”
“Because,” said Tillizini, with his sweetest smile, “my crimes are
never brought home to me.”
With another bow he left the room.
Outside the house in Downing Street Inspector Crocks was waiting.
“I got you some telegrams,” he said genially. “I am rapidly
deteriorating into a private secretary.”
Tillizini smiled. A feeling of affection had grown up between these
two men, so differently constituted, so temperamentally apart. When
Crocks had been detailed to assist Tillizini in his work, there were
many skeptical people who smiled behind their hands, for anybody more
unlike the detective of fiction than the inspector could not easily
be imagined. Yet he was a shrewd, clever man, subtle to a point of
brilliancy--a rapid and effective organizer, with a knowledge of the
criminal underworld which few men possess.
Tillizini tore open the telegrams; he read them twice, then he crumpled
them into a ball and thrust them into his coat pocket. The letters,
after glancing at the address and the post-mark, he placed unopened in
the inside pocket of his frock coat.
“I didn’t show you the telegrams,” he said to the other, “because they
are in code.”
In a few words he communicated the gist of their contents. Tillizini’s
code book was in his head.
“I am going to see my decoy now.”
“Is he still alive?” asked the inspector with simulated surprise.
“He was, a few minutes ago,” said Tillizini.
For once he did not treat the subject facetiously, and the inspector
knew that the question he had put in good humour had a serious
application.
“I secured him a position,” said Tillizini suddenly; “he is an outside
porter at Victoria. It will afford him an excellent opportunity of
becoming acquainted with contrary humanity.”
“And at the same time he will be able to give you a little
information,” said Crocks. “I think it is an excellent scheme. He
doesn’t look clever, and I don’t think he is particularly clever,
but he has got the power which so few police officers possess,
unfortunately. The moment a man begins to look important his value
decreases.”
Tillizini laughed.
“Oh, unimportant man!” he said cryptically.
A few minutes later the two parted. The detective went back to
Scotland Yard and Tillizini hailed a cab and drove to an address in
south London.
At half-past twelve that day the fast train from Burboro’ to Victoria
steamed slowly into the big terminus. Vera Morte-Mannery was one of the
first to descend. Her foot touched the platform almost before the train
stopped.
She walked quickly through the barrier into the large space at the end
of the station. She looked round anxiously, and then up at the clock.
The man she sought was not there. She strolled aimlessly from one side
of the station to the other, and was returning to the bookstall, when
Festini, with rapid strides, came into the station.
She caught his eye and he checked himself and turned about carelessly.
He walked out of the station and she followed. At his uplifted finger a
car came out of the rank and drew up at the sidewalk.
Without a word she got in and he followed.
They drove in silence until the car turned into Hyde Park and slowed
down in obedience to the regulations.
Then she turned to him suddenly and, with a breaking voice, asked:
“Where is Marjorie Meagh?”
He raised his eyebrows.
“Marjorie Meagh?” he asked. “You do not mean to tell me that you have
brought me to London to ask me a question like that?”
“Where is Marjorie Meagh?” she asked again.
“How on earth should I know?”
“Festini,” she said, pleadingly, “let us be frank with one another.
Marjorie has been taken by the Red Hand. You are the Red Hand.”
“Hush!” he muttered savagely. “Don’t shout, people could hear you on
the sidewalks!”
His manner toward her had changed. It was a little cold, a little
impatient, more than a little intolerant. She had detected the changed
atmosphere the moment she had met him.
She pressed her lips tightly together and remained silent for a little
while.
“What is your object in taking her?” she asked.
“That is hidden from you. Do you not trust me?”
“Trust you!” she laughed bitterly. “Have I not trusted you to the
fullest extent?” she asked. “That question should rather come from me.
You do not trust me, Festini.”
It was less a statement than a pleading. She wanted him to deny it, but
no denial came.
“There are things which it is not right for me to tell you.”
“Why?” she asked. “Is there any secret of the Red Hand which I do not
know?”
He smiled a little uneasily.
“You did not know anything about the Fourth Plague,” he said softly.
“I do not complain of that,” she said; “it was too great a thing to
trust with any man or woman. But there is nothing so subtle in this
kidnapping of Marjorie Meagh.”
He spread out his hands with a gesture of helplessness.
“I cannot tell you,” he said. “There is something behind this which you
cannot know.”
“There is something behind it which I can guess!” she said fiercely.
“You love Marjorie--you have taken her because you love her. Don’t deny
it. I can see it in your face. Oh, you liar! You liar!”
He had never seen her like this. It was a new force he was
encountering, one which at once pleased and piqued him.
She had been all softness, all yielding to him before, an easy
conquest for this handsome man, with his soft voice and his eloquent
eyes.
In her anger she was a little terrible, but she did not terrify him. He
was used to opposition, and had a quick way with it. There was enough
of woman in him to appreciate her feelings. But, like the autocrat he
was, he resented her revolt, and in his resentment said more than it
was wise, under the circumstances, to say.
“Yes, it is true,” he said coolly. “I do love her. Why should I
deny it? I do not love you any less because I love her. She is on a
different plane from you and me.”
Vera was breathing quickly; her bosom rose and fell with the intensity
of her pent-up rage. She did not speak again for a minute; she was
conquering an insane desire to throw herself from the car, to run
anywhere out of his sight, as she had gone, she knew, out of his heart.
The fires of humiliation and jealousy burned too fiercely within her
for words.
Again and again she checked the wild torrent of speech that rose to her
lips and choked in the checking.
And this was the end! The end of her dream, the reward for all her
work, for all her treachery to those who loved her, the last stretch of
the road which she had fondly thought led to happiness.
From time to time he looked at her out of the corner of his eye.
“I understand,” she said at last, speaking composedly. “Your great plan
has come to fruition. You have no further use for me?”
“Do not say that, Vera,” he said.
He was immensely relieved to discover how well she had taken the news,
which, cold-blooded as he was, he had no desire and, if the truth be
told, no intention of telling her.
“You are indispensable,” he said. He tried to take her hand, but she
withdrew it. “It is only the exigencies of the scheme we have in hand
which has prevented me from taking you more fully into my confidence.
As to Marjorie, I want you to be generous,” he said. “I want you to
realize----”
“Oh, I understand,” she said wearily. “Were you ever sincere, Festini?
Were you ever faithful?”
She looked at him searchingly.
“I swear----” he began.
“Don’t swear,” she said. “I think I understand.” She smiled bravely.
“I’ll get out here,” she said. “I’d like a little walk. This is not
exactly the outcome of the morning’s meeting that I expected,” she
went on. “Although I was jealous, I never realized that my suspicions
were true.”
He tried by argument to persuade her to remain with him, but she was
determined. She tapped the window and the car drew up. As she alighted,
he assisted her. She held out her hand.
“Good-bye, Festini,” she said.
His eyes narrowed.
“You must see me again. There is no good-bye with me,” he said
abruptly. “I have told you you are indispensable--I mean that.”
She made no reply. Gently she relaxed her clasp, and her hand fell
listlessly to her side. Then she turned abruptly and walked away.
He stood watching her until she was out of sight. Could he trust her?
He had a large knowledge of men, a larger of women. He had weighed all
the chances; she would not betray him, he thought. These English people
love to suffer in silence, to hug to their secret hearts their greatest
griefs.
He smiled, shrugged his shoulders, and, turning to the driver, directed
him to a fashionable restaurant. For men, even great conspirators, must
lunch.
He stopped the car in Oxford Street to buy an evening newspaper. It
was filled, as had been the morning journals, with speculations on the
Fourth Plague. Would the Red Hand put their threat into execution? One
journal had found a scientist who had discovered a specific, another
gave a perfect pen picture of Tillizini. Wild and improbable rumours
found prominence; there was nothing of any real account. He was closing
the paper when a little paragraph which had evidently been inserted to
fill up caught his eye at the bottom of the column:
The unfortunate man, Mansingham, who has added to the tragic variety of
his career by being associated with the disappearance of Miss Marjorie
Meagh, was an expert swimmer, and at the annual meeting of the Burboro’
Aquatic Club last night sympathetic references were made to his
disappearance.
Festini frowned. A swimmer? Of course it was absurd. But there might
have been grave danger in throwing him into the water. He was stunned,
though, and three days had passed without any sign of his reappearance.
He knew, by careful inquiry, that no body had been picked up on the
coast, but it sometimes happened that weeks elapsed before the sea gave
up its dead. It was absurd to bother about that. But throughout his
luncheon he found the thought intruding in his mind. Suppose this man
turned up? It would have been better to follow out the suggestion of Il
Bue to kill him right away.
The waiter brought him his bill, and he paid, tipping the servant
lavishly.
He walked out of the hall into the big vestibule of the restaurant,
selected a cigar at the little cigar counter, and strolled out into
Piccadilly.
His car, driven by a trusted member of the Red Hand, followed him along
the broad, crowded thoroughfare at a snail’s pace.
At the corner of Piccadilly Circus he suddenly came face to face with
Frank Gallinford.
The Englishman was looking ill; the strain of the past few days was
telling on him. The loss of his fiancée was preying on his mind; he had
not slept. His agents were searching the country from end to end. He
had also established a little police organization of his own, for Frank
Gallinford was a fairly wealthy man.
The two men stopped, staring at each other for the fraction of a
second; then Festini held out his hand with a suave smile.
“How do you do, Mr. Gallinford?” he said.
Frank was in no mood for conversation or condolence. He uttered a few
conventional words, shook hands hurriedly, and passed on, leaving
Festini to finish his stroll.
Frank had not gone twenty yards before somebody pressed his arm softly.
He looked round. A tall man was standing at his side. At first he did
not recognize him in his rough workman’s kit and his little moustache,
but when he spoke he knew him.
“Go back after Festini,” said Tillizini quickly. “Talk to him about
anything you like, hold him in conversation for a few minutes”--he
turned and walked back with the other a little way--“and when you get
into St. James’s Street turn off to the right. The street is torn up.
Induce him by any art in your power to go to the other end of that
street.”
“But why?”
“No, do not ask why,” said Tillizini. He gave one of his rare gestures
of impatience. “Do as I tell you.”
Frank nodded. Though he had no heart for the job, he quickened his
steps and overtook Festini.
Tillizini watched them. He saw them strolling along and turn into the
street he had indicated. The waiting car on the other side of the road
entered the street and then stopped; the road was torn up, and beyond
half-way down there was no thoroughfare. The chauffeur looked round
anxiously. He had to back out and make a detour by the way of the lower
end of Regent Street and Piccadilly. He had another alternative, which
was to wait. He looked undecided. He was assisted in his decision as to
what he should do by the gesture of a policeman, who ordered him back
to the main street.
Very slowly the car backed out. It was a minute or two before he could
bring the long Napier into the stream of traffic moving up toward
Piccadilly Circus. There was a block here, and another wait ensued.
Tillizini had posted himself where he could watch every movement. He
saw the look of anxiety on the chauffeur’s face. The opportunity he
had been waiting for for the last two hours now presented itself. He
threaded his way through the block of traffic and passed the car.
He took something from his pocket and, bending over the rear wheel,
pressed down his hand upon it. A broad strip of rubber with a steel
clamp at either end.
Deftly he fixed it over the wheel. In its centre an arrow head
projected. It had been carefully prepared and only the expert,
interested in the accessories of cars, would have thought it unusual.
With one glance to see that his work had been well done, he slipped
through the traffic and gained the other side of the road. He walked
a little way down Regent Street, and from there he saw the two men
talking. Festini was walking back. He had missed the car and had
understood why it had failed to follow him.
Tillizini saw him take a hurried farewell of Frank and walk quickly up
the street. The professor smiled. It appealed to him, this spectacle of
Festini and his car playing hide-and-seek with one another.
He did not attempt to rejoin Frank; instead he called a cab, which
came reluctantly, for this man in working clothes did not inspire
confidence, and drove straight to Scotland Yard.
That night every police station in England received a notification, and
in the early hours of the morning, policemen on foot, cyclists, and
mounted men were searching the wet roads for the track of a motor car
which displayed an arrow at regular intervals.