THE FRUITS OF A CRIMINAL PHILOSOPHY
Lynton Hora was not to be allowed to escape. That was the decision
arrived at, after the prolonged conference at the Foreign Office, and
Detective Inspector Kenly's mind was thereby disburdened of the fear
lest all his efforts should have been wasted. He would have liked
to have made certain of one prisoner there and then, but this was
forbidden him. He had no belief in repentant offenders, and to him Guy
appeared nothing more. Still Flurscheim refused to charge Guy. Captain
Marven undertook to be responsible for his answering any charge, Sir
Everard Markham added his persuasions, and Sir Gadsby Dimbleby declared
that he would take it as a personal insult if Guy were arrested before
the Master Criminal was laid by the heels. The Great Man was far too
great a man for a detective inspector to offend, and so Guy left the
Foreign Office with Captain Marven to await the summons to surrender
himself, when information of Hora's arrest should reach him.
The Captain was very grateful for the respite, none the less
because he had not personally urged it. For a little while his
son would be with him. As yet the prison stain was not upon him.
He was pathetically anxious to become acquainted with the grown
child who was so soon to be torn away again. Duty may be
sometimes an over-hard task-master, yet he faced it manfully, and could
at least find some small consolation in the fact that his son faced it
as manfully as himself.
Detective Inspector Kenly saw them drive away together, and, as
he caught sight of the look of pleasure on the face of the King's
Messenger, he was not altogether sorry that he had been compelled to
forego the arrest.
"It's a curious tangle," he muttered. Then he hailed a cab, and
gave the address of a police court. Ten minutes' interview with the
magistrate was all he sought, and, when he re-entered the waiting cab,
he had in his possession two documents--a warrant for Lynton Hora's
arrest, and a search warrant for the flat in Westminster Mansions.
Thus provided for all emergencies, he drove straight away for Hora's
residence. There was no time to be wasted. From what he had learned
during the afternoon it was clear that Lynton Hora must be aware that
at any moment his deeds might be brought to light, for Guy had been
called in to the conference, and he had revealed all that had passed
between himself and the man he had believed to be his father.
On arrival at Westminster Mansions Inspector Kenly stamped his
foot with vexation on learning that Lynton Hora had gone out. His
subordinate was absent, too. If flight was in Hora's mind, the sergeant
would obey the instructions and detain him. Kenly determined to make
use of the absence to execute the search warrant in his possession. But
he was not going to leave anything to chance. He telephoned to Scotland
Yard for further assistance, and, pending its arrival, he chatted
with his old friend, the hall porter, and from him he learned that
the other occupant of the flat had also gone out that morning, and had
not returned. This seemed more like preparation for flight than ever,
but Myra's absence also left him a clear field for his investigations.
A very few minutes elapsed before the assistance he had asked for
arrived. He left one of the two plain-clothes men in the hall and took
the other with him upstairs. No one was aware of the nature of their
business, and the two men entered the flat with the service key. Kenly
did not waste time on a careful examination of the lower rooms. He went
directly to the floor leading to the attics where Hora's "collection"
was stored. He only wanted to verify the information which Guy had
given as to the whereabouts of the Greuze. He had long since provided
himself with a key to the lock of the door so that admission to the
attics presented no difficulty. Guy had spoken truly. Kenly found the
Greuze and the snuff-boxes stolen from Flurscheim's house. He saw also
that there was a rich store of other articles in locked cabinets and
cases, for which no doubt he would be able to find owners. But he did
not linger to examine them. There would be plenty of time for that
after Hora had been apprehended.
After he had been apprehended! Kenly did not allow himself to
consider the possibility that he might escape. Yet as minutes passed
by and the minutes added themselves into hours, he began to be
uneasy in his mind. His uneasiness became acute apprehension when,
as dusk was falling, the subordinate to whom had been entrusted the
duty of shadowing Hora returned to the Mansions alone.
A rich variety of objurgations rose to the Inspector's tongue, but
there was no time to be lost in uttering them. He enquired where Hora
had been lost sight of. The man explained to the best of his ability.
He had followed Hora to Waterloo railway station, had heard him take
a return ticket to Worcester Park, had himself booked to the same
destination, had taken a seat in the next compartment, had watched to
see whether he alighted at any intermediate station, and on arrival at
Worcester Park had discovered that the compartment in which Hora had
travelled was empty.
Kenly reflected. Worcester Park was two stations further down the line
than Wimbledon. What if Hora had wished to see Jessel again? He turned
to the man. "Was Hora carrying a small black bag and an overcoat on his
arm?"
"Yes," was the reply.
"You idiot," muttered Kenly; then he added, "You will wait here until
Hora returns, or you are relieved. If he comes back, you will arrest
him and take him straight to Bow Street. If the girl returns, arrest
her, too." Then he turned to the other two men. "Go back to the
Yard, and have a full description of him and the girl telegraphed to
every port in the kingdom. Stay, though, you had better wire, also,
particulars of the disguise in which he succeeded in eluding this dolt."
The subordinate shivered, and realised that if Hora did not return it
would be advisable for him to retire from the force.
Kenly dictated a description of Hora's clerical disguise. There was yet
a chance that he might get upon his track. He jumped into the first
cab that passed and drove away to Waterloo. He could have wept with
vexation at the thought of his prey escaping so easily, through the
incompetence of his subordinate. He looked at his watch. A train was
timed to start for Wimbledon in two minutes. With luck he would just
catch it. He lifted the trap in the roof of the hansom, and shouted,
"Hurry up, cabby, I have a train to catch."
Luck was apparently against him. Traffic was heavy and the cab was
caught in a block. Kenly writhed with impatience. But a moment
later the traffic block appeared to be a special dispensation of
Providence. Kenly caught sight, in the light of a street lamp, of an
old clergyman, in shabby hat and cloak and carrying a small black bag,
amongst the crowd on the sidewalk. He could have shouted aloud with
delight. He jumped out of the cab, and tossed the driver a half-crown
piece. His first impulse was to dash forward, and there and then
effect the arrest. He had recognised Hora, he could have sworn to the
distinguishing limp. But a second thought restrained him. Though Guy's
statements had been apparently full and frank, Kenly had not credited
him when he had declared that he and Lynton Hora worked alone. He had
thought that there must be other members of the gang, a supposition
which had been fed by the information he had extracted from Jessel.
Hora had worn his clerical disguise when communicating with Jessel.
What more likely than that he should put it on when communicating with
other tools? Kenly determined to follow him.
Soon he was glad that he had done so. Hora apparently had no intention
of returning to Westminster Mansions. He boarded an omnibus which
took him northwards. Kenly sat behind him while they drove through
the brilliant streets of the West End. He changed the bus for another
travelling westwards, the detective at his heels. Passengers came and
went, but Hora remained until the end of the journey.
Kenly knew the district, and he thought that his suppositions were
about to be verified when he observed the direction Hora took upon
alighting. That way led to the quarter where the thieves of the
metropolis had gathered and made themselves a colony when their old
haunts in the centre of the city had been mowed down. He felt in his
pocket for his whistle, and wished that he had slipped a revolver
into his pocket that morning. But he followed, nevertheless, and was
thankful when a couple of uniformed policemen came in sight. As he
passed them he uttered a single word. The constables apparently took no
notice, but when Kenly was half the length of the street distant they
wheeled round and followed him steadily.
Hora pursued his way in a manner that showed that the quarter was not
strange to him. The detective hunched his shoulders, pulled his cap
down over his ears, and turned up his coat collar. Here he might be
recognised any moment. He did not want to alarm his quarry.
Hora turned into Fancy Lane. He was walking more quickly now. He
disappeared under the archway which led to "Ma" Norton's disreputable
shed. Arriving there Kenly paused. The two policemen turned into
the lane. He held up his hand and plunged into the blackness. The
constables came on, and arriving at the entrance they stood there
chatting quietly. But their eyes were keenly observant, and each
had loosened the truncheon hidden beneath his tunic. They were in the
enemy's country, and at any moment might be called upon to fight for
their lives.
Kenly blundered on through the darkness, guided by the sound of voices,
until he emerged into the yard. There his attention was attracted by
a dull light filtering through dirty panes of glass. It seemed to him
evidence that his objective was attained. Stealthily he made his way to
the window and peeped through.
He had seen many strange tableaux during his career, but none stranger
than that he now looked upon. He saw a dropsical old woman, with a
glass in her hand and a maudlin grin on her bloated face, balancing
herself with difficulty on a rickety chair. He saw Lynton Hora, with
a mocking smile on his face, by no means in keeping with his clerical
garb, pointing to the hideous figure. He saw another man at Hora's
elbow, a bullet-headed man, with closely cropped red hair and with
flushed face, whose eyes never wandered from the face of the fourth
member of the party. Kenly recognised her, too. Myra's beauty was not
easily forgotten, and it peeped out from beneath the mask of horror
which was drawn over her face.
Hora was speaking.
"So you have found your way back to your native slum, Myra. Do
you find it congenial to your dainty spirit? I see your mother is
celebrating your return. One day you will be like her." He wheeled
round rapidly and glanced at the man at his elbow. "You have found an
admirer, too, as well as a mother. You have lost no time."
Myra threw out her hands imploringly.
"Take me away, Commandatore. Take me away," she cried. She saw that
Hora hesitated, and she renewed her appeal.
"Why should I take you away?" he answered. "I offered you a husband and
a home. You let them escape you." He jerked his head to the man. "Hagan
here will supply you with both. Why should I interfere?"
The hope died out of her face and the fear reappeared as the man
lurched forward.
"'Ear what the Master says; e's a toff at spoutin', is the Master," he
said, with an ugly leer on his face.
She shrank from his touch, and looked vainly round for a way of escape.
Kenly thought of a hare he had once seen as it doubled almost at his
feet from two pursuing greyhounds. He placed his whistle between his
lips ready.
"Stand back, Hagan," said Hora authoritatively.
The man dropped his hand, but there was a frown on his face.
"Suppose I were to take you away?" he asked.
Hope shone out in her face again.
"Ask of me anything you will," she cried. "Anything but this."
She had forgotten everything in the supreme horror of the hideous hole
in which she had found herself.
That morning when she had left Lynton Hora's abode she had thought she
had been incapable of further suffering. She had gone out into the park
and sat there hour after hour, conscious at first only of the one fact
that Guy was lost to her forever. She had told herself that
she would never return to Lynton Hora's roof to face his sneers. He
had always hated her. She had no doubt that he was aware all the time
that Guy would never marry her, and that he had only bidden her try to
win his love that she might be humiliated by its rejection. Perhaps
he had lied to her about her mother and her home, merely that she
might not be tempted to escape from him. The sound of the word mother
appealed strongly to her in her dazed condition. Her mother could not
be worse than Hora. She had the address. One day she had copied it down
carefully. The slip of paper was still in her purse.
She had found her way thither with difficulty. Not until she had lost
herself amongst the streets in the neighbourhood of Fancy Lane did she
begin to regain her senses. Then the words of coarse abuse from the
doors of public houses, the shrill voices of women from open doors,
made her wish for flight. Darkness had fallen on the face of the town
by that time, and she became aware that she was nearly exhausted. Then
a child had led her to Fancy Lane, and another youngster, for the gift
of a sixpence, had acted as guide to her destination. Everybody in
Fancy Lane knew "Ma" Norton.
The bully on his way to his favourite drinking shop had seen her
passing along the street. A flash of the stones set in the bracelet she
still wore on her wrist--the bracelet Guy had given her--attracted his
attention. He had changed his purpose and followed her.
Myra had known that Hora had spoken only too truly the moment she
entered the den, where Mrs. Norton was soaking herself to death in
alcohol. The old woman had been just too tipsy to comprehend who her
visitor was. Myra had soon given up the task of trying to explain. She
had found a lamp, and, after lighting it, had shuddered with disgust
at the filthy surroundings revealed by the light. She could not stop
there. She had risen to leave, but found the exit blocked by the burly
figure of Bully Hagan.
He had heard her attempts to make Mrs. Norton understand who she was.
This was "Ma's" lady daughter. He foresaw profit in the fact. When
his eyes rested on Myra's perfect figure silhouetted against the
lamp she had lighted, another thought entered into his brain. He did
not at first disclose his thought. Myra thought he was merely intent
upon plunder. When she understood, she realised how the Sabine women
must have felt; she experienced the emotions of the women of a Balkan
village when an Albanian regiment was let loose upon it.
For an hour Myra had kept him at bay, her faculties racked to the
utmost. Then Lynton Hora had come on the scene, and she had appealed to
him.
Now Hora seemed to be considering her appeal, and her face brightened
with hope as she gazed eagerly on his face. He responded with a smile.
"It is lucky for you that I thought of coming and looking for you
here," he said. "Whatever you have done or left undone would not
deserve such a fate as that."
He indicated the man at his elbow with a gesture of scorn.
"You will take me home again." The relief was so
great that she could scarcely believe it.
"Yes, come along. It is getting late."
An angry growl arrested him.
"No, you don't," said Hagan.
The veins of the bully's forehead were swollen and his fists clenched.
"Get out of the way," said Hora, in the tone he would have used to
a cur in the street, and, as the man did not stir, he caught him by
the arm and thrust him aside so violently that he crashed against the
opposite wall.
"Come, Myra," said Hora.
Kenly lost nothing of the scene. He saw the look on the bully's face as
he picked himself up. He saw a flash of steel in his hand. The whistle
he held between his teeth shrilled out as he left the window and dashed
to the door. The sound was answered by other whistles, and he heard the
rush of feet towards him down the passage. He reached the door, but it
stuck fast. The sound of the advancing feet was drowned by a woman's
shriek. Kenly hurled his whole weight against the door. The shriek was
repeated. A second time the detective hurled himself against the door.
This time the catch gave way and he blundered forward into the room.
Two figures lay prone upon the floor, a man stood over them calmly
wiping the blood-stained blade of a knife on his sleeve. A dropsical
old woman sat gazing with a maudlin smile on her face at the scene.
Kenly's head whirled. He stood still, mechanically, until panting
breath behind him gave warning that assistance had arrived.
Hagan coolly handed him the knife.
"I done it," he said; "I've outed 'em both."
Then he held out his hands for the bracelets.
Kenly stooped to the floor, and laid his finger on Myra's wrist.
The pulse had ceased to beat. He laid her hand down again, and
bent over Lynton Hora. The Master lay perfectly still, and even
while the detective bent over him a glaze spread itself over
the open eyes. Kenly's quarry had escaped him.
L'ENVOI
Captain Marven never had cause to mourn for a son hidden behind the
bars of a convict prison.
The fate which had fallen upon Lynton Hora was so full of horror
that even Detective Inspector Kenly would have been willing to admit
that a greater power than that of the law he had striven to enforce
had administered justice. When his chief, therefore, told him that
he was expected to keep a discreet silence in regard to the part Guy
had played in the Flurscheim robbery, he could hardly squeeze out a
sigh. Later, he was to win his reward when, by means of the Great
Man's recommendation, he was appointed to the chief constableship of
an important borough where his position was such that Mrs. Detective
Inspector was compelled finally and for all time to renounce taking in
lodgers.
Mr. Hildebrand Flurscheim once again rejoiced in the possession of
his Greuze. It returned to its old place on his wall, so that morning
and night he could feast his eyes upon its beauties. Jessel never
applied for the reward. He returned to the shadows from which he
had emerged. In fact, he felt that he could not be happy in a land
where he was so well known to an important member of the detective
force of the police. But Flurscheim always lamented that, since the
Greuze and other valuables had been returned to him, it would be
impossible for him to liquidate his debt to Guy, who had
insisted even upon returning the miniature which bore so great a
likeness to Meriel.
That miniature, however, came again into Guy's possession in the form
of a wedding gift, when Meriel Challys changed her name to Meriel
Marven. The Jew's words had borne fruit. She found a loving duty in
helping Guy to bury his past, and Captain and Mrs. Marven found a
renewal of their own youth in the happiness which attended the union.
As for Guy--well, he has been heard to declare that the waters of his
life are full of star-dust.
THE END
TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES
Obvious typographical errors have been silently changed.
Inconsistent hyphenation has been corrected.
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