Produced by Al Haines
THE FOUR STRAGGLERS
BY
FRANK L. PACKARD
THE COPP, CLARK CO., LIMITED
TORONTO
COPYRIGHT, 1923,
BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
THE FOUR STRAGGLERS. II
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE: THE FOUR OF THEM
BOOK I: SHADOW VARNE
CHAPTER
I THREE YEARS LATER
II AN IRON IN THE FIRE
III THREE OF THEM
IV GOLD PLATE
V "DEAR GUARDY"
VI THE WRITING ON THE WALL
BOOK II: THE ISLE OF PREY
I THE SPELL OF THE MOONBEAMS
II THE VOICE IN THE NIGHT
III THE MAD MILLIONAIRE
IV THE UNKNOWN
V THE GUTTER-SNIPE
VI THE MAN IN THE MASK
VII THE FIGHT
VIII THE MESSAGE
BOOK III: THE PENALTY
I THE WHITE SHIRT SLEEVE
II THE BRONZE KEY
III THE WARP AND THE WOOF
IV THE TIME-LOCK OF THE SEA
PROLOGUE: THE FOUR OF THEM
THE FOUR STRAGGLERS
PROLOGUE
THE FOUR OF THEM
The crash of guns. A flare across the heavens. Battle. Dismay.
Death. A night of chaos.
And four men in a thicket.
One of them spoke:
"A bloody Hun prison, that's us! My Gawd! Where are we?"
Another answered caustically:
"Monsieur, we are lost--and very tired."
A third man laughed. The laugh was short.
"A Frenchman! Where in hell did you come from?"
"Where you and the rest of us came from." The Frenchman's voice was
polished; his English faultless. "We come from the tickling of the
German bayonets."
The first man elaborated the statement gratuitously:
"I don't know about you 'uns; but our crowd was done in good and proper
two days ago. Gawd! ain't there no end to 'em? Millions! And us
running! What I says is let 'em have the blinking channel ports, and
lets us clear out. I wasn't noways in favour of mussing up in this
when the bleeding parliament says up and at 'em in the beginning,
leastways nothing except the navy."
"Drafted, I take it?" observed the third man coolly.
There was no answer.
The fourth man said nothing.
There was a whir in the air ... closer ... _closer_; a roar that surged
at the ear drums; a terrific crash near at hand; a tremble of the earth
like a shuddering sob.
The first man echoed the sob:
"Carry on! Carry on! I _can't_ carry on. Not for hours. I've been
running for two days. I can't even sleep. My Gawd!"
"No good of carrying on for a bit," snapped the third man. "There's no
place to carry on _to_. They seem to be all around us."
"That's the first one that's come near us," said the Frenchman. "Maybe
it's only--what do you call it?--a straggler."
"Like us," said the third man.
A flare, afar off, hung and dropped. Nebulous, ghostlike, a faint
shimmer lay upon the thicket. It endured for but a moment. Three men,
huddled against the tree trunks, torn, ragged and dishevelled men,
stared into each others' faces. A fourth man lay outstretched,
motionless, at full length upon the ground, as though he were asleep or
dead; his face was hidden because it was pillowed on the earth.
"Well, I'm damned!" said the third man, and whistled softly under his
breath.
"Monsieur means by that?" inquired the Frenchman politely.
"Means?" repeated the third man. "Oh, yes! I mean it's queer. Half
an hour ago we were each a separate bit of driftwood tossed about out
there, and now here we are blown together from the four winds and
linked up as close to each other by a common stake--our lives--as ever
men could be. I say it's queer."
He lifted his rifle, and, feeling out, prodded once or twice with the
butt. It made a dull, thudding sound.
"What are you doing?" asked the Frenchman.
"Giving first aid to Number Four," said the third man grimly. "He's
done in, I fancy. I'm not sure but he's the luckiest one of the lot."
"You're bloody well right, he is!" gulped the first man. "I wouldn't
mind being dead, if it was all over, and I was dead. It's the dying
and the thinking about it I can't stick."
"I can't see anything queer about it." The Frenchman was judicial; he
reverted to the third man's remark as though no interruption had
occurred in his train of thought. "We all knew it was coming, this
last big--what do you call it?--push of the Boche. It has come. It is
gigantic. It is tremendous. A tidal wave. Everything has gone down
before it; units all broken up, mingled one with another, a mêlée. It
has been _sauve qui peut_ for thousands like us who never saw each
other before, who did not even know each other existed. I see nothing
queer in it that some of us, though knowing nothing of each other, yet
having the same single purpose, rest if only for a moment, shelter if
only for a moment, should have come together here. To me it is not
queer."
"Well, perhaps, you're right," said the third man. "Perhaps
adventitious would have been better than queer."
"Nor adventitious," dissented the Frenchman. "Since we have been
nothing to each other in the past, and since our meeting now offers us
collectively no better chance of safety or escape than we individually
had before, there is nothing adventitious about it."
"Perhaps again I am wrong." There was a curious drawl in the third
man's voice now. "In fact, I will admit it. It is neither queer nor
adventitious. It is quite--oh, quite!--beyond that. It can only be
due to the considered machinations of the devil on his throne in the
pit of hell having his bit of a fling at us--and a laugh!"
"You're bloody well right!" mumbled the first man.
"Damn!" said the Frenchman with asperity. "I don't understand you at
all."
The third man laughed softly.
"Well, I don't know how else to explain it, then," he said. "The last
time we--"
"The _last_ time!" interrupted the Frenchman. "I did not get a very
good look at you when that flare went up, I'll admit; but enough so
that I would swear I had never seen you before."
"Quite so!" acknowledged the third man.
"Gawd!" whimpered the first man. "Look at that! Listen to that!"
A light, lurid, intense for miles around opened the darkness--and died
out. An explosion rocked the earth.
"Ammunition dump!" said the Frenchman. "I'm sure of it now. I've
never seen any of you before."
The third man now sat with his rifle across his knees.
The fourth man had not moved from his original position.
"I thought you were officers, blimy if I didn't, from the way you
talked," said the first man. "Just a blinking Tommy and a blinking
_Poilu_!"
"Monsieur," said the Frenchman, and there was a challenge in his voice,
"I never forget a face."
"Nor I," said the third man quietly. "Nor other things; things that
happened a bit back--after they put the draft into England, but before
they called up the older classes. I don't know just how they worked it
over here--that is, how some of them kept out of it as long as they
did."
"Godam!" snarled the Frenchman. "Monsieur, you go too far!
And--monsieur appears to have a sense of humour peculiarly his
own--perhaps monsieur will be good enough to explain what he is
laughing at?"
"With pleasure," said the third man calmly. "I was laughing at the
recollection of a night, not like this one, though there's a certain
analogy to it for all that, when an attack was made on--a strong box in
a West End residence in London. Lord Seeton's, to be precise."
The first man stirred. He seemed to be groping around him where he sat.
"Foolish days! Perverted patriotism!" said the third man. "The family
jewels, the hereditary treasures, gathered together to be offered on
the altar of England's need! Fancy! But it was being done, you know.
Rather! Only in this case the papers got hold of it and played it up a
bit as a wonderful example, and that's how three men, none of whom had
anything to do with the others, got hold of it too--no, I'm wrong
there. Lord Seeton's valet naturally had inside information."
"Blimy!" rasped the first man suddenly. "A copper in khaki! That's
what! A bloody, sneaking swine!"
It was inky black in the thicket. The third man's voice cut through
the blackness like a knife.
"You put that gun down! I'll do all the gun handling there's going to
be done. Drop it!"
A snarl answered him--a snarl, and the rattle of an object falling to
the ground.
"There were three of them," said the third man composedly. "The valet,
who hadn't reached his class in the draft; a Frenchman, who spoke
marvellous English, which is perhaps after all the reason why he had
not yet, at that time, served in France; and--and some one else."
"Monsieur," said the Frenchman silkily, "you become interesting."
"The curious part of it is," said the third man, "that each of them in
turn got the swag, and each of them could have got away with it with
hardly any doing at all, if it hadn't been that in turn each one
chivied the other. The Frenchman took it from the valet, as the valet,
stuffed like a pouter pigeon with diamonds and brooches and pendants
and little odds and ends like that, was on his way to a certain
pinch-faced fence named Konitsky in a slimy bit of neighbourhood in the
East End; the Frenchman, who was an _Englishman_ in France, took the
swag to a strange little place in a strange little street, not far from
the bank of the Seine, the place of one Père Mouche, a place that in
times of great stress also became the shelter and home of this same
Frenchman, who--shall I say?--I believe is outstandingly entitled to
the honour of having raised his profession to a degree of art
unapproached by any of his confreres in France to-day."
"_Sacré nom_!" said the Frenchman with a gasp. "There is only one
Englishman who knew that, and I thought he was dead. An Englishman
beside whom the Frenchman you speak of is not to be compared. You
are--"
"_I_ haven't mentioned any names," said the third man smoothly. "Why
should you?"
"You are right," said the Frenchman. "Perhaps we have already said too
much. There is a fourth here."
"No," said the third man. "I had not forgotten him." He toyed with
the rifle on his knee. "But I had thought perhaps you would have
recognised the valet's face."
"Strike me pink!" muttered the first man. "So Frenchy's the blighter
that did me in, was he!"
"It is the uniform, and the dirt perhaps, and the very poor light,"
said the Frenchman apologetically.
"But you--pardon, monsieur, I mean the other of the three--I did not
see him; and monsieur will perhaps understand that I am deeply
interested in the rest of the story."
The third man did not answer. A sort of momentary, weird and
breathless silence had settled on the thicket, on all around, on the
night, save only for the whining of some oncoming thing through the
air. Whine ... whine ... _whine_. The nerves, tautened, loosened,
were jangling things. The third man raised his rifle. And somewhere
the whining shell burst. And in the thicket a minor crash; a flash,
gone on the instant, eye-blinding.
The first man screamed out:
"Christ! What have you done?"
"I think he was done in anyway," said the third man calmly. "It was as
well to make sure."
"Gawd!" whimpered the first man.
"Monsieur," said the Frenchman, "I have always heard that you were
incomparable. I salute you! As you said, you had not forgotten. We
can speak at ease now. The rest of the story--"
The third man laughed.
"Come to me in London--after the war," he said, "and I will tell it to
you. And perhaps there will be--other things to talk about."
"I shall be honoured," said the Frenchman. "We three! I begin to
understand now. A house should not be divided against itself. Is it
not so? We should go far! It is fate to-night that--"
"Or the devil," said the third man.
"My Gawd!" The first man began to laugh--a cracked, jarring laugh.
"After the war, the blinking war--after _hell_! There ain't no end,
there ain't no--"
And then a flare hung again in the heavens, and in the thicket three
men sat huddled against the tree trunks, torn, ragged and dishevelled
men, but they were not staring into each others' faces now; they were
staring, their eyes magnetically attracted, at a spot on the ground
where a man, a man murdered, should be lying.
But the man was not there.
The fourth man was gone.
BOOK I: SHADOW VARNE
--I--
THREE YEARS LATER
The East End being, as it were, more akin to the technique and the
mechanics of the thing, applauded the craftsmanship; the West End, a
little grimly on the part of the men, and with a loquacity not wholly
free from nervousness on the part of the women, wondered who would be
next.
"The cove as is runnin' that show," said the East End, with its tongue
delightedly in its cheek, "knows 'is wye abaht. Wish I was 'im!"
"The police are nincompoops!" said the outraged masculine West End.
"Absolutely!"
"Yes, of course! It's quite too impossible for words!" said the female
of the West End. "One never knows when one's own--_do_ let me give you
some tea, dear Lady Wintern..."
From something that had merely been of faint and passing interest, a
subject of casual remark, it had grown steadily, insidiously, had
become conversationally epidemic. All London talked; the papers
talked--virulently. Alone in that great metropolis, New Scotland Yard
was silent, due, if the journals were to be believed, to the fact that
that world-famous institution was come upon a state of hopeless and
atrophied senility.
With foreknowledge obtained in some amazing manner, with ingenuity,
with boldness, and invariably with success, a series of crimes,
stretching back several years, had been, were being, perpetrated with
insistent regularity. These crimes had been confined to the West End
of London, save on a few occasions when the perpetrators had gone
slightly afield--because certain wealthy West-Enders had for the moment
changed their accustomed habitat. The journals at spasmodic intervals
printed a summary of the transactions. In jewels, and plate, and cash,
the figures had reached an astounding total, not one penny of which had
ever been recovered or traced. Secret wall safes, hidden depositories
of valuables opened with obliging celerity and disgorged their contents
to some apparition which immediately vanished. There was no clue. It
simply happened again and again. Traps had been set with patience and
considerable artifice. The traps had never been violated. London was
accustomed to crimes, just as any great city was; there were hundreds
of crimes committed in London; but these were of a _genre_ all their
own, these were distinctive, these were not to be confused with other
crimes, nor their authors with other criminals.
And so London talked--and waited.
It was raining--a thin drizzle. The night was uninviting without; cosy
within the precincts of a certain well-known West End club, the
Claremont, to be exact. Two men sat in the lounge, in a little recess
by the window. One, a man of perhaps thirty-three, of athletic build,
with short-cropped black hair and clean-shaven face, a one-time captain
of territorials in the late war, and though once known on the club
membership roll as Captain Francis Newcombe was to be found there now
as Francis Newcombe, Esquire; the other, a very much older man, with a
thin, grey little face and thin, grey hair, would, on recourse to the
club roll, have been found to be Sir Harris Greaves, Bart.
The baronet made a gesture with his cigar, indicative of profound
disgust.
"Democracy!" he ejaculated. "The world safe for democracy! I am
nauseated with that phrase. What does it mean? What did it ever mean?
We have had three years now since the war which was to work that
marvel, and I have seen no signs of it yet. So far as I--"
Captain Francis Newcombe laughed.
"And yet," he said, "I embody in my person one of those signs. You can
hardly deny that, Sir Harris. Certainly I would never have had, shall
I call it the distinction, of being admitted to this club had it not
been for the democratic leaven working through the war. You remember,
of course? An officer and a gentleman! We of England were certainly
consistent in that respect. While one was an officer one was a
gentleman. The clubs were all pretty generally thrown open to officers
during the war. Some of them came from the Lord knows where. T.G.'s
they were called, you remember--Temporary Gentlemen. Afterward--but of
course that's another story so far as most of them were concerned.
Take my own case. I enlisted in the ranks, and toward the latter end
of the war I obtained my commission--I became a T.G. And as such I
enjoyed the privileges of this club. I was eventually, however, one of
the fortunate ones. At the close of the war the club took me on its
permanent strength and, ergo, I became a--Permanent Gentleman.
Democracy! Private Francis Newcombe--Captain Francis Newcombe--Francis
Newcombe, Esquire."
"A rather thin case!" smiled the baronet. "What I was about to say
when you interrupted me was that, so far as I can see, all that the
world has been made safe for by the war is the active expression of the
predatory instinct in man. I refer to the big interests, the trusts;
to the radical outcroppings of certain labour elements; to--yes!"--he
tapped the newspaper that lay on the table beside him--"the Simon-pure
criminal such as this mysterious gang of desperadoes that has London at
its wits' ends, and those of us who have anything to lose in a state of
constant apoplexy."
Captain Francis Newcombe shook his head.
"I think you're wrong, sir," he said judicially. "It isn't the
aftermath of the war, or the result of the war. It is _the_ war, of
which the recent struggle was only a phase. It's been going on since
the days of the cave man. You've only to reduce the nation to the
terms of the individual, and you have it. A nation lusts after
something which does not belong to it. It proceeds to take it by
force. If it fails it is punished. That is war. The criminal lusts
after something. He flings down his challenge. If he is caught he is
punished. That is war. What is the difference?"
The baronet sipped at his Scotch and soda.
"H'm! Which brings us?" he suggested.
"Nowhere!" said Captain Francis Newcombe promptly. "It's been going on
for ages; it'll go on for all time. Always the individual predatory;
inevitably in cycles, the cumulative individual running amuck as a
nation. Why, you, sir, yourself, a little while ago when somebody here
in the room made a remark to the effect that he believed this
particular series of crimes was directly attributable to the war
because it would seem that some one of ourselves, some one who has the
entrée everywhere, who, through being contaminated by the filth out
there, had lost poise and was probably the guilty one, meaning, I take
it, that the chap finding himself in a hole wasn't so nice or
particular in his choice of the way out of it as he would have been but
for the war--you, Sir Harris, denied this quite emphatically.
It--er--wouldn't you say, rather bears me out?"
The old baronet smiled grimly.
"Quite possibly!" he said. "But if so, I must confess that my
conclusion was based on a very different premise from yours. In fact,
for the moment, I was denying the theory that the criminal in question
was one of ourselves, quite apart from any bearing the war might have
had upon the matter."
The ex-captain of territorials selected a cigarette with care from his
case.
"Yes?" he inquired politely.
The old baronet cleared his throat. He glanced a little whimsically at
his companion.
"It's been a hobby, of course, purely a hobby; but in an amateurish
sort of way as a criminologist I have spent a great deal of time and
money in--"
"By Jove! Really!" exclaimed Captain Newcombe. "I didn't know, Sir
Harris, that you--" He paused suddenly in confusion. "That's anything
but a compliment to your reputation though, I'm afraid, isn't it? A
bit raw of me! I--I'm sorry, sir."
"Not at all!" said the old baronet pleasantly; and then, with a wry
smile: "You need not feel badly. In certain quarters much more
intimate with the subject than you could be supposed to be, I am
equally unrecognised."
"It's very good of you to let me down so easily," said the ex-captain
of territorials contritely. "Will you go on, sir? You were saying
that you did not believe these crimes were being perpetrated by one in
the same sphere of life as those who were being victimised. Why is
that, sir? The theory seemed rather logical."
"Because," said the old baronet quietly, "I believe I know the man who
is guilty."
The ex-captain of territorials stared.
"Good Lord, sir!" he gasped out. "You--you can't mean that?"
"Just that!" A grim brusqueness had crept into the old baronet's
voice. "And one of these days I propose to prove it!"
"But, sir"--the ex-captain of territorials in his amazement was still
apparently groping out for his bearings--"in that case, the
authorities--surely you--"
"They were very polite at Scotland Yard--_very_!" The old baronet
smiled drily again. "That was the quarter to which I referred.
Socially and criminologically--if I may be permitted the word--I fear
that the Yard regards me from widely divergent angles. But damme,
sir"--he became suddenly irascible--"they're too self-sufficient! I am
a doddering and interfering old idiot! But nevertheless I am firmly
convinced that I am right, and they haven't heard the end of the
matter--if I have to devote every penny I've got to substantiating my
theory and bringing the guilty man to justice!"
Captain Francis Newcombe coughed in an embarrassed way.
The old baronet reached for his tumbler, and drank generously. It
appeared to soothe his feelings.
"Tut, tut!" he said self-chidingly. "I mean every word of that--that
is, as to my determination to pursue my own investigations to the end;
but perhaps I have not been wholly fair to the Yard. So far, I lack
proof; I have only theory. And the Yard too has its theory. It is a
very common disease. The theory of the Yard is that the man I believe
to be guilty of these crimes of to-day died somewhere around the middle
stages of the war."
"By Jove!" Captain Francis Newcombe leaned sharply forward on the arms
of his chair. "You don't say!"
The old baronet wrinkled his brows, and was silent for a moment.
"It's quite extraordinary!" he said at last, with a puzzled smile. "I
can't for the life of me understand how I got on this subject, for I
think we were discussing democracy--but you appear to be interested."
"That is expressing it mildly," said the ex-captain of territorials
earnestly. "You can't in common decency refuse me the rest of the
story now, Sir Harris."
"There is no reason that I know of why I should," said the old baronet.
"Did you ever hear of a man called Shadow Varne?"
Captain Francis Newcombe shook his head.
"No," he said.
"Possibly, then," said the old baronet, "you may remember the robbery
at Lord Seeton's place? It was during the war."
"No," said the other thoughtfully. "I can't say I do. I don't think I
ever heard of it."
"Well, perhaps you wouldn't," nodded the old baronet. "It happened at
a time when, from what you've said, I would imagine you were in the
ranks, and--however, it doesn't matter. The point is that the robbery
at Lord Seeton's is amazingly like, I could almost say, each and every
one of this series of robberies that is taking place to-day. The same
exact foreknowledge, the hidden wall safe, or hiding place, or
repository, or whatever it might be, that was supposedly known only to
the family; the utter absence of any clue; the complete disappearance
of--shall we call it?--the loot itself. There is only one difference.
In the case of Lord Seeton, the jewels--it was principally a jewel
robbery--were eventually recovered. They were found in Paris in the
possession of Shadow Varne. But"--the old baronet smiled a little
grimly again--"the police were not to blame for that."
Sir Harris Greaves, amateur criminologist, reverted to his tumbler of
Scotch and soda.
Captain Francis Newcombe knocked the ash from his cigarette with little
taps of his forefinger.
"Yes?" he said.
"It's a bit of a story," resumed the old baronet slowly. "Yes, quite a
bit of a story. I do not know how Shadow Varne got to Paris; I simply
know that, had he not taken sick, neither he nor the jewels would ever
have been found. But perhaps I am getting a little too far ahead. I
think I ought to say that Shadow Varne, though he had never actually up
to this time been known in a _physical_ sense to the police, had
established for himself a widespread and international reputation. His
name here, for instance, amongst the criminal element of our own East
End was a sort of talisman, something to conjure with, as it were,
though no one could ever be found who had seen or could describe the
man. I suppose that is how he got the name of Shadow. Some must have
known him, of course, but they were tight-lipped; and even these, I am
inclined to believe, would never have been able to lay fingers on him,
even had they dared. He was at once an inscrutable and diabolical
character. I would say, and in this at least Scotland Yard will agree
with me, he seemed like some evil, unembodied spirit upon whom one
could never come in a tangible sense, but that hovered always in the
background, dominating, permeating with his personality the criminal
world."
"But if this is so, if no one knew him, or had ever seen him," said the
ex-captain of territorials in a puzzled way, "how was he recognised as
Shadow Varne in Paris?"
"I am coming to that," said the old baronet quietly. "As you know very
well, in those days they were always poking into every rat hole in
Paris for draft evaders. That is how they stumbled on Shadow Varne.
They dug him out of one of those holes, a very filthy hole, like a
rat--like a very sick rat. The man was raving in delirium. That is
how they knew they had caught Shadow Varne--because in his delirium he
disclosed his identity. And that is how they recovered Lord Seeton's
jewels."
"My word!" ejaculated Captain Francis Newcombe. "A bit tough, I call
that! My sympathies are almost with the accused!"
"I am afraid I have failed to make you understand the inhuman qualities
of the man," said the old baronet tersely. "However, Shadow Varne was
even then too much for them--at least temporarily. A few nights later
he escaped from the hospital; but he was still too sick a man to stand
the pace, and they were too close on his heels. He had possibly, all
told, a couple of hours of liberty, running, dodging through the
streets of Paris. The chase ended somewhere on the bank of the Seine.
He was fired at here as he ran, and though quite a few yards in the
lead, he appeared to have been hit, for he was seen to stagger, fall,
then recover himself and go on. He refused to halt. They fired and
hit him again--or so they believed. He fell to the ground--and rolled
over the edge into the water. And that was the last that was ever seen
of him."
"My word!" ejaculated the ex-captain of territorials again. "That's a
nice end! And I must say, with all due deference to you, Sir Harris,
that I can't see anything wrong with Scotland Yard's deduction. I
fancy he's dead, fast enough."
"Yes," said the old baronet deliberately, "I imagined you would say so;
and I, too, would agree were it not for two reasons. First, had it
been any other man than Shadow Varne; and, second, that the body was
never recovered."
"But," objected Captain Francis Newcombe, "if, as you believe, the man
is still carrying on, having been identified once, he would, wouldn't
you say, be recognised again?"
"Not at all!" said the old baronet decidedly. "You must take into
account the man's sick and emaciated condition when he was caught, and
the subsequent hospital surroundings. Let those who saw him then see
the same man to-day, robust, in health, and in an entirely different
atmosphere, locality and environment! Recognised? I would lay long
odds against it, even leaving out of account the man's known ingenuity
for evading recognition."
The ex-captain of territorials nodded thoughtfully.
"Yes," he said, "that is quite possible; but, even granting that he is
still alive, I can't see--"
"Why I should believe he is at the bottom of what is going on to-day
here in London?" supplied the old baronet quickly. "Perhaps intuition,
perhaps the mystery about the man that has interested me from the time
I first heard of him in the early years of the war, and which has ever
since been a fascinating study with me, has something to do with it. I
told you to begin with that my _proof_ was theory. But I believe it.
I do not say he is alone in this, or was alone in the Lord Seeton
affair; but he is certainly the head and front and brains of whatever
he was, or is, engaged in. As for the similarity of the cases, I will
admit that might be pure coincidence, but we _know_ that Shadow Varne
did have the Seeton jewels in his possession. The strongest point,
however, that I have to offer in a tangible sense, bearing in mind the
man himself and his hideously elusive propensities, is the fact there
is no absolute proof of his death. Why wasn't his body recovered? You
will answer me probably along the same lines that the Paris police
argued and that were accepted by Scotland Yard. You will say that it
was dark, that the body might not have come to the surface immediately,
and under the existing conditions, by the time they procured a boat and
began their search, it might easily be missed. Very good! That is
quite possible. But why, then, was not the body eventually recovered
in two or three days, say--a week, if you like? You will say that this
would probably be very far indeed from being the first instance in
which a body was never recovered from the Seine. And here, too, you
would be quite right. But I do not believe it. I do not believe it
was a dead man, or a man mortally wounded, or a man wounded so badly
that he must inevitably drown, who pitched helplessly into the water
that night. I believe he did it voluntarily, and with considered
cunning, as the only chance he had. Go into the East End. Listen to
the stories you will hear about him. The world does not get rid of
such as he so easily! The man is not human. The crimes he has
committed would turn your blood cold. He is the most despicable, the
most wanton thing that I ever heard of. He would kill with no more
compunction than you would break in two that match you are holding in
your hand. Where he came from God alone knows, and--"
A club attendant had stopped beside the old baronet's chair.
"Yes?" said the old baronet.
"I beg pardon, Sir Harris, but your car is here," announced the man.
"Very good! Thank you!" The old baronet drained his glass and stood
up. "Well, you have heard the story, captain," he said with a dry
smile. "I shall not embarrass you by asking you to decide between
Scotland Yard and myself, but I shall at least expect you to admit that
there is some slight justification for my theory."
The ex-captain of territorials, as he rose in courtesy, shook his head
quietly.
"If I felt only that way about it," he said slowly, "I should simply
thank you for a very interesting story and your confidence. As it is,
there is so much justification I feel impelled to say to you that, if
this man is what you describe him to be, is as dangerous as you say he
is, I would advise you, Sir Harris, in all seriousness to leave him--to
Scotland Yard."
"What!" exclaimed the old baronet sharply. "And let him go free! No,
sir! Not if every effort I can put forth will prevent it! Never,
sir--under any circumstances!"
Captain Francis Newcombe smiled gravely, and shrugged his shoulders.
"Well, at least, I felt I ought to say it," he said. "Good-night, Sir
Harris--and thank you so much!"
"Good-night, captain!" replied the old baronet cordially, as he turned
away. "Good-night to you, sir!"
Captain Francis Newcombe watched the other leave the room, then he
walked over to the window. The drizzle had developed into a downpour
with gusts of wind that now pelted the rain viciously at the window
panes. He frowned at the streaming glass.
A moment later, as he moved away from the window, he consulted his
watch. It was a quarter past eleven. Downstairs he secured his hat
and stick, and spoke to the doorman.
"Get a taxi, please, Martin," he requested, "and tell the chap to drive
me home."
He lighted a cigarette as he waited, and then under the shelter of the
doorman's umbrella entered the taxi.
It was not far. The taxi stopped before a flat in a fashionable
neighbourhood that was quite in keeping with the fashionable club
Captain Francis Newcombe had just left. His man admitted him.
"It's a filthy night, Runnells," said the ex-captain of territorials.
Runnells slammed the door against a gust of wind.
"You're bloody well right!" said Runnells.
--II--
AN IRON IN THE FIRE
It was a neighbourhood of alleyways and lanes of ferocious darkness; of
ill-lighted, baleful streets, of shadows; and of doorways where no
doors existed, black, cavernous and sinister openings to inner chambers
of misery, of squalid want, of God-knows-what.
It was the following evening, and still early--barely eight o'clock.
Captain Francis Newcombe turned the corner of one of these gloomily
lighted streets, and drew instantly back to crouch, as an animal
crouches before it springs, in the deep shadows of a wretched tenement
building. Light footfalls sounded; came nearer. Two forms, skulking,
yet moving swiftly, came into sight around the corner.
Captain Francis Newcombe sprang. His fist crashed with terrific force
to the point of an opposing jaw. A queer grunt--and one of the two men
sprawled his length on the pavement and lay quite still. Captain
Francis Newcombe's movements were incredibly swift. His left hand was
at the second man's throat now, and a revolver was shoved into the
other's face.
The tableau held for a second.
"A bit of a 'cushing' expedition, was it?" said the ex-captain of
territorials calmly. "I looked a likely victim, didn't I? Just the
usual bash on the head with a neddy, and then the usual stripping even
down to the boots if they were good enough--and mine were good enough,
eh? And I might get over that bash on the head, or my skull might be
cracked; I might wake up in one of your filthy passageways here, or I
might never wake up! What would it matter? It's done every night.
You make your living that way. And who's to know who did it?" His
grip tightened suddenly on the other's throat. "Your kind are better
dead," said Captain Francis Newcombe, and there was something of
horrible callousness in his conversational tones. "You lack art; you
have no single redeeming feature." It was as though now he were
debating in cold precision with himself. "Yes, you are much better
dead!"
"Gor' blimy, guv'nor, let me go," half choked, half whined the other.
"We wasn't goin' to touch you. No fear! Me an' me mate was just goin'
round to the pub for an 'arf-pint--"
"It would make a noise," said Captain Francis Newcombe unemotionally.
"That is the trouble. I should have to clear out of here, and be put
to the annoyance of waiting a half hour or so before I could come back
and attend to my own affairs. That's the only reason I haven't fired
this thing off in your face, and I'm not sure that reason's good
enough. But it's a bit of a fag to argue it out, so--don't move, you
swine, or that'll settle it quicker still!" His fingers, from the
other's throat, searched his own waistcoat pocket, and produced a
silver coin. "Heads or tails?" he inquired casually. "You call it."
"My Gawd, guv'nor," whimpered the man, "yer don't mean that! Yer
wouldn't shoot a cove down like that, would yer? My Gawd, yer wouldn't
do that!"
"Heads or tails?" The ex-captain of territorial's voice was bored. "I
shan't ask you again."
The light was poor. The man's features, save that they were dirty and
unshaven, were almost indistinguishable; but the eyes roved everywhere
in hunted fear, and he lumped the fingers of one hand together and
plucked with them in an unhinged way at his lips.
"I--no!" gurgled the man. "My Gawd!" His words were thick. His
fingers, plucking, clogged his lips. "I carn't--I--" The mechanism of
the revolver intruded itself--as unemotional as its owner--an
unemotional click. The man screamed out. "No, no--wait, guv'nor!
Wait!" he screamed. "'Eads! Gawd! 'Eads!"
Captain Francis Newcombe examined the coin; the sense of touch, as he
rubbed his fingers over it, helping out the bad light.
"Right, you are!" he said indifferently. "Heads it is! You're in
luck!" He tossed the coin on the pavement. "I'd keep that, if I were
you." His voice was still level, still bored. "You haven't got
anything, of course, to do any sniping with, for anything as valuable
as that would never remain in the possession of your kind for more than
five minutes before you would have pawned it." He glanced at the
prostrate form of the thug's companion, who was now beginning to show
signs of returning consciousness. "I fancy you'll find his jaw's
broken. Better give him a leg up," he said, and, turning on his heel,
walked on down the street.
Captain Francis Newcombe did not look back. He traversed the murky
block, turned a corner, turned still another, and presently made his
way through an entrance, long since doorless, into the hallway of a
tenement house. It was little better than a pit of blackness here, but
his movements were without hesitation, as one long and intimately
familiar with his surroundings. He mounted a rickety flight of stairs,
and, without ceremony, opened the door of a room on the first landing,
entered, and closed the door behind him. The room had no light in it.
"Who's there?" demanded a weak, querulous, female voice.
The visitor made no immediate reply. The place reeked with the odour
of salt fish; the air was stale, and an offence that assaulted the
nostrils. Captain Francis Newcombe crossed to the window, wrenched at
it, and flung it viciously open.
A protracted fit of coughing came from a corner behind him.
"Didn't I tell you never to _send_ for me?" he snapped out in abrupt
menace.
"'Ow, it's you, is it?" said the woman's voice. "Well, I ain't never
done it afore, 'ave I? Not in three years I ain't."
"You've done it now; you've done it to-night--and that's once too
often!" returned Captain Francis Newcombe savagely. "And before I'm
through with you, I'll promise you you'll never do it again!"
"No," she answered out of the darkness, "I won't never do it again, an'
that's why I done it to-night--'cause I won't never 'ave another
chance. The doctor 'e says I ain't goin' to be 'ere in the mornin'."
Captain Francis Newcombe lit a match. It disclosed a tallow dip and a
piece of salt fish on a battered chair--and, beyond, the shadowy
outline of a bed. He swept the piece of fish to the floor out of his
way, lighted the candle, and, leaning forward, held it over the bed.
A woman's face stared back at him in the flickering light; a curiously
blotched face, and one that was emaciated until the cheek bones seemed
the dominant feature. Her dull, almost glazed, grey eyes blinked
painfully in even the candle rays; a dirty woollen wrap was fastened
loosely around a scrawny neck, and over this there straggled strands of
tangled and unkempt grey hair.
"Well, I fancy the diagnosis isn't far wrong," said the ex-captain of
territorials critically. "I've been too good to you--and prosperity's
let you down. For three years you haven't lifted a finger except to
carry a glass of gin to your lips. And now this is the end, is it?"
The woman did not answer. She breathed heavily. The hectic spots on
her cheeks burned a little wider.
Captain Francis Newcombe set the candle back on the chair, and, with
his hands in his pockets, stood looking at her. His face exhibited no
emotion.
"I haven't heard yet _why_ you sent for me," he said sharply.
"Polly," she said thickly. "I wanter know wot abaht Polly?"
Captain Francis Newcombe smiled without mirth.
"My dear Mrs. Wickes," he said evenly, "you know all about Polly. I
distinctly remember bringing you the letter she enclosed for you in
mine ten days ago, because I distinctly remember that after you had
read it I watched you tear it up. And as your education is such that
you cannot write in return, I also distinctly remember that you gave me
messages for her which I was to incorporate in my own reply. Since
then I have not heard from Polly."
The woman raised herself suddenly on her elbow, and, her face
contorted, shook her fist.
"My dear Mrs. Wickes!" she mimicked furiously through a burst of
coughing. "Yer a cool 'un, yer are. That's wot yer says, yer stands
there an' smiles like a bloomin' hangel, an' yer says, my dear Mrs.
Wickes! Curse yer, I knows more abaht yer than yer thinks for. Three
years I've watched yer, an' hif I've kept my tongue to meself that
don't say I don't know wot I knows."
"Indeed!" Captain Francis Newcombe shrugged his shoulders. He smiled
slightly. "Then I should say, if it were true, that it is sometimes
_dangerous_, Mrs. Wickes--to know even a little about some things."
The woman rocked in the bed, and hugged her thin bosom against a spasm
of coughing that came near to strangulation.
"Bah!" she shouted, when she could get her breath. "I ain't afraid of
yer any more. Damn yer, I'm dyin' anyhow! It's nothin' to you wiv yer
smug smile, except yer glad I'll be out of the wye--an'--an', Gawd, it
ain't nothin' to me either. I'm sick, of it all, an' I'm glad, I am;
but afore I goes I wanter know wot abaht Polly. Wot'd yer tyke her
awye for three years ago?"
"For the price of two quid paid weekly to a certain Mrs. Wickes, who is
Polly's mother," said Captain Francis Newcombe composedly; "and with
which the said Mrs. Wickes has swum in gin ever since."
Mrs. Wickes fell back exhausted on her pillow.
"Wot for?" she whispered in fierce insistence. "I wanter know wot for?"
"Well," said Captain Francis Newcombe, "even at fifteen Polly was an
amazingly pretty little girl--and she showed amazing promise. I'm
wondering how she has developed. Extremely clever youngster! Don't
see, in fact, Mrs. Wickes, where she got it from! Not even the local
desecration of the king's English--in spite of the board schools!
Amazing! We couldn't let a flower like that bloom uncultivated, could
we?"
The woman was up in the bed again.
"A gutter brat!" she cried out. "An' you says send 'er to school wiv
the toffs in America, 'cause there wouldn't be no chance of doin' that
'ere at 'ome; an' I says the toffs don't tyke 'er kind there neither.
An' you says she goes as yer ward, an' yer can get 'er in, only she 'as
to forget abaht these 'ere London slums. An' she ain't to write no
letters to me except through you, 'cause hif any was found down 'ere
they'd turn their noses up over there an' give Polly the bounce."
"Quite right, Mrs. Wickes!" said Captain Francis Newcombe
imperturbably. "And for three years Polly has been in one of the most
exclusive girls' seminaries in America--and incidentally I might say I
am arranging to go over there shortly for a little visit. If her
photographs are to be relied upon, she has more than fulfilled her
early promise. A very beautiful young woman, educated, and now, Mrs.
Wickes--a lady. She has made a circle of friends among the best and
the wealthiest. Why, even now, with the summer holidays coming on, you
know, I understand she is to be the guest of a school friend in a
millionaire's home. Think of that, Mrs. Wickes! What more could any
woman ask for her daughter? And why should you, for instance, ask more
to-night? Why this eleventh hour curiosity? You agreed to it all
three years ago, Mrs. Wickes--for two quid a week."
"Yes," said the woman passionately, "an' I'm probably goin' to 'ell for
it now! I knowed then yer wasn't doin' this for Polly's sake, an' in
the three years I kept on knowin' yer more an' more for the devil you
are. But I says to meself that I'm 'ere to see Polly don't come to no
harm, but--but I ain't goin' to be 'ere no more, an' that's wot I wants
to know to-night. An' I asks yer, wot's yer game?"
"Really!" Captain Francis Newcombe shrugged his shoulders again.
"This isn't very interesting, Mrs. Wickes. And in any case, I fail to
see what you are going to do about it, or what lever you could possibly
bring to bear to make me divulge what you are pleased to imagine is
some base and ulterior motive in what I have done. It is quite well
known among Captain Newcombe's circle that he is educating a ward in
America. It is--er--rather to his credit, is it not?"
"Gawd curse yer wiv yer smooth tongue!" said Mrs. Wickes wildly. "I
knows! I knows yer got a game--some dirty game wiv Polly in it. Yer
clever, yer are--an' yer ain't human. But yer won't win, an' all along
'o Polly. She won't do nothin' that ain't straight, she won't. Polly
ain't that kind."
"Oh, as to that, and granting my wickedness," said Captain Francis
Newcombe indifferently, "I shouldn't worry. Having you in mind, Mrs.
Wickes, I fancy even that would be quite all right--blood always tells,
you know."
"Blood! Blood'll tell, will it?" The woman was rocking in the bed
again. She burst into harsh laughter. It brought on another, and even
more severe, strangling fit of coughing. "Blood'll tell, will it?" she
choked, as she gasped for breath. "Well, so it will! So it will!"
Captain Francis Newcombe stared at her from narrowed eyes. "What do
you mean by that?" he demanded sharply.
But Mrs. Wickes had fallen back upon her pillow in utter exhaustion.
She lay fighting painfully, pitifully now for every breath.
"What do you mean by that?" repeated Captain Francis Newcombe still
more sharply.
And then suddenly, as though some strange premonition were at work, all
fight gone from her, the woman threw out her arms in a broken gesture
of supplication.
"I'm a wicked woman, a bloody wicked 'un I've been. Gawd forgive me
for it!" she whispered. "Polly ain't no blood of mine."
Captain Francis Newcombe rested his elbows on the back of the chair,
and smiled coolly.
"I think," he said evenly, "it's my turn now to ask what the game is?
That's a bit thick, isn't it--after three years?"
The hectic spots had faded from the woman's face, and an ominous
greyness was taking their place. She was crying now.
"It's Gawd's truth," she said. "I was afraid yer wouldn't 'ave give me
the two quid a week hif yer'd known I 'adn't no 'old on 'er. Polly
don't know. No one knows but me, an'--" Her voice trailed off through
weakness.
Captain Francis Newcombe, save that his eyes had narrowed a little
more, made no movement. He watched her without comment as she
struggled for her breath again.
"I didn't mean to 'ave no fight wiv yer, Gawd knows I didn't. Gawd
knows I didn't send for yer for that. I only wanted to ask yer wot
abaht Polly, an' to ask yer to be good to 'er, an'--an' tell yer wot
I'm tellin' yer now afore it's too late. An'--an'--" She raised
herself with a sudden convulsive effort to her elbow. "Gawd, I--I'm
goin' _now_."
With a swift movement Captain Francis Newcombe whipped a flask from his
pocket, and held it to the woman's lips.
She swallowed a few drops with difficulty, and lay still.
Presently Mrs. Wickes' lips moved.
Captain Francis Newcombe, close beside the bed now, leaned over her.
"A lydy 'er mother was, an' 'er father 'e was a gentleman born 'e was.
I--I don't know nothin' abaht 'em except she was a guverness an' 'e
'adn't much money. Neither of 'em 'adn't no family accordin' to 'er,
an' countin' wot 'appened she told the truth, poor soul."
Again Mrs. Wickes lay silent. Her lips continued to move, but they
were soundless. She seemed suddenly to become conscious of this, and
motioned weakly for the flask. And again with difficulty she swallowed
a few drops.
"Years ago this was." Mrs. Wickes forced the words with long pauses
between. "'Ard times came on 'em. 'E got killed in a haccident. An'
she took sick after Polly came, an' the money went, an' she wouldn't
'ave charity, an' she got down to this, like us 'uns 'ere, tryin' to
keep body an' soul together on the bit she 'ad left. An' she died, an'
I took Polly. Two years old Polly was then. There wasn't no good of
tellin' Polly an' 'ave 'er give 'erself airs when she 'ad to go out an'
do 'er bit an' earn something. An', wot's more, if she'd known I
wasn't 'er mother she might 'ave stopped workin' for me--an' I couldn't
'ave made 'er, 'avin' lost my hold on 'er--an' I wasn't goin' to 'ave
anything like that. Polly Wickes--Polly Wickes--the flower girl.
Flowers--posies--pretty posies--that's where yer saw 'er--"
The woman's voice had thickened; her words, in snatches, were
incoherent:
"Polly Wickes--Polly Wickes--Polly Gray--Polly Gray 'er name is--Polly
Gray. I got the lines an' the birth paper. I kept 'em all these
years. 'Ere! I got 'em 'ere."
"Where?" said Captain Francis Newcombe tersely.
"'Ere!" Mrs. Wickes plucked feebly at the edge of the bed clothing.
"'Ere!"
Captain Francis Newcombe thrust his hand quickly in under the mattress.
After a moment's search he brought out a soiled envelope. It bore a
faded superscription in a scrawling hand. He picked up the candle from
the chair and read it:
"Polly's papers which is God's truth,
Mrs. Wickes X her mark."
He tore the envelope open rather carefully at the end. It contained
two papers that were turned a little yellow with age. Yes, it was
quite true! His eyes travelled swiftly over the names:
"Harold Morton Gray.... Elizabeth Pauline Forbes. Pauline Gray...."
There was a sudden sound from the bed--like a long, fluttering sigh.
Captain Francis Newcombe swung sharply about. The woman's arm was
stretched out toward him; dulled eyes seemed to be striving desperately
in their fading vision to search his face.
"Polly!" Mrs. Wickes whispered. "For--for for Christ's sake--be--be
good to Polly--be good to--"
The outstretched arm fell to the bed covering--and Mrs. Wickes lay
still.
Captain Francis Newcombe leaned forward, holding the candle, searching
the form on the bed critically with his eyes. After a moment he
straightened up.
Mrs. Wickes was dead.
Captain Francis Newcombe replaced the papers in the envelope, and
placed the envelope in his pocket. He set the candle back on the
chair, blew it out, and walked across the room to the door.
"Gray, eh?" said Captain Francis Newcombe under his breath, as he
closed the door behind him. "Polly Gray, eh? Well, it doesn't matter,
does it? It's just as good an iron in the fire whether it's--Wickes or
Gray!"
--III--
THREE OF THEM
Twenty-five minutes later, Captain Francis Newcombe stood at the door
of his apartment. Runnells admitted him.
"Paul Cremarre here yet?" demanded the ex-captain of territorials
briskly.
"Yes," said Runnells. "Been here half an hour."
With Runnells behind him, Captain Francis Newcombe entered the living
room of the apartment. A tall man, immaculately dressed, with a small,
very carefully trimmed black moustache, with eyes that were equally
black but whose pupils were curiously minute, stood by the mantel.
"Ah, monsieur!" He waved his arm in greeting. "_Salut_!"
"Back, eh, Paul?" nodded Captain Francis Newcombe, flinging himself
into a lounge chair. "Expected you, of course, to-night. Well, what's
the news? How's the fishing smack?"
Paul Cremarre smiled faintly.
"Ah, the poor _Marianne_!" he said. "Such bad weather! It is always
the bilge. If it did not leak so furiously!" He lifted his shoulders,
and blew a wreath of cigarette smoke languidly ceilingward.
"So!" said Captain Francis Newcombe. "Been searched again, eh?"
The Frenchman laughed softly.
"Two very charming old gentlemen who were summering on the French
coast, and were so interested in everything. Could they come aboard?
But, why not? It was a pleasure! Such harmless old children they
looked--not at all like Leduc and Colferre of the Préfecture!"
"One more sign of the times!" commented Captain Francis Newcombe a
little shortly. "And Père Mouche?"
"Ah!" murmured the Frenchman. "That is another story! I am afraid it
is true that his back is really bending under the load. He has done
amazingly, but though the continent is wide, it can only absorb so
much, and there are always difficulties. He says himself that we feed
him too well."
Captain Francis Newcombe frowned.
"Well, he's right, of course! Leduc and Colferre, eh? I don't like
it! If we needed anything further to back us up in our decision lately
that it was about time to lay low for a while, we've got it here.
There is to-morrow night's affair, of course, that naturally we will
carry through, but after that I think we should come to a full stop
for, say--a six months' holiday. Personally, as you know, I'm rather
anxious to make a little trip to America. I'll take Runnells along as
my man for the looks of it. He can play at valeting and still enjoy
himself if he keeps out of mischief--which I will see to it"--Captain
Francis Newcombe's lips thinned--"that he does! That will account for
the temporary closing up of this apartment here. And you, Paul--I
suppose it will be the Riviera for you?"
The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders.
"Ah!" he said. "As to that I do not know, but what does it matter?"
He laughed good-humouredly. "I have no attraction such as monsieur
with a charming ward in America. I am of the desolate, one of the
forlorn of the earth in whom no one has more than a passing interest."
"Except Scotland Yard and the Préfecture," said the ex-captain of
territorials with a grim smile. He rose suddenly from his chair and
paced once or twice the length of the room. "Yes," he said decisively,
"we'd be fools to do anything else. It will give Père Mouche a chance
to work down his surplus stock, and the police to lose a little of
their ardour. It's getting a bit hot. Scotland Yard is badly flicked
on the raw. London is becoming unhealthy. Even Runnells here, whom I
would never accuse of having any delicate sense of prescience, has been
uneasy of late as though he felt the net drawing in."
"You're bloody well right!" said Runnells gruffly. "I don't know how,
but it's true. Let the coppers nose a cold scent for a while, I says.
I can do with a bit of America whenever you're ready!"
"Quite so!" said Captain Francis Newcombe. "It's in the air. Like
Runnells, I do not know exactly where it comes from, but I know it's
there."
"Monsieur," said the Frenchman, "I have often wondered about the
fourth--stragglers, I think you called us that night--about the fourth
straggler."
"You mean?" demanded Captain Francis Newcombe sharply.
"Nothing!" said the Frenchman. "One sometimes wonders, that is all.
The thought flashed through my mind as you spoke. But it means
nothing. How could it? More than three years have gone. Let us
forget my remark." He flicked the ash from his cigarette. "Well,
then, as I am the only one left to speak, I will say that I too agree.
For six months we do not exist so far as business is concerned--after
to-morrow night." He made a wry face, and laughed. "Well, it will be
dull! I fear it will be dull, and one will become _ennuyé_, but it is
wise. So! It is decided. And so there remains only to-morrow night.
I was to be here this evening to discuss the details--and here I am.
Shall we proceed to discuss them? I have made a promise to the little
Père Mouche that when I return he shall eat a _ragoût_ from a veritable
gold plate, and that Scotland Yard--"
The doorbell interrupted the Frenchman's words.
Runnells left the room to answer the summons. He was back in a moment
with a card on a silver tray, which he handed to the ex-captain of
territorials.
The card tray was significant. Captain Francis Newcombe glanced first
at Runnell's face, frowned--then picked up the card. His eyes narrowed
as he read it. On the card was written:
DETECTIVE-SERGEANT MULLINS
NEW SCOTLAND YARD
He handed the card coolly to Paul Cremarre.
"Everything all right so far as you are concerned?" he demanded in a
low, quick tone.
The Frenchman smiled at the card in a curious way, handed it back, and
lighted a fresh cigarette.
"Yes," he said.
"_Sure?_" said Captain Francis Newcombe.
"Absolutely!" replied the Frenchman in the same low tone.
"Very good!" said the ex-captain of territorials. "Don't look so
damned white around the gills, Runnells. _And watch yourself!_" He
raised his voice. "Show the sergeant in, Runnells!" he said.
A minute later, Runnells ushered in a thick-set, florid-faced man.
"Sergeant Mullins, sir!" he announced, and withdrew from the room.
The sergeant looked inquiringly from one to the other of the two men.
"I'm sorry to intrude, gentlemen," he said. "It's Captain Newcombe,
I--"
Captain Francis Newcombe waved his hand pleasantly.
"Not at all, sergeant!" he said. "I am Captain Newcombe. What can I
do for you?"
"Well, sir," said the man from Scotland Yard, "I'm not saying you can
do anything, and then again maybe you can." He glanced at the
Frenchman, and coughed slightly.
"Mr. Cremarre is a close friend of mine," said Captain Francis Newcombe
quietly. "You may speak quite freely before him, so far as I am
concerned."
"Very good, sir!" said Sergeant Mullins. "Well, then, even if the
papers hadn't been full of it all day, you'd probably know about it
anyway, being as how you were a friend of his. It's Sir Harris
Greaves, sir--Sir Harris' murder."
Captain Francis Newcombe, as though instinctively, turned toward an
evening paper that lay upon the table, its great headlines screaming
the murder across the front page.
"Good God, sergeant--yes!" he exclaimed. "It's a shocking thing!
Shocking!" He jerked his head toward the paper, and glanced at Paul
Cremarre. "You've read it, of course, Paul?"
"I've never read anything like it before," said the Frenchman grimly.
"The most wanton thing I ever heard of! Absolutely purposeless!"
"Don't you be too sure about that, sir," said Detective-Sergeant
Mullins crisply. "Things aren't done purposelessly--leastways, not
them kind of things."
"Exactly!" agreed Captain Francis Newcombe. "Right you are, sergeant!
But you'll pardon me if I appear a bit curious as to why you should
have come to me about it."
"Well, sir," said Sergeant Mullins, "that's simple enough. You are the
last one as had any conversation with Sir Harris before he was
murdered."
Captain Francis Newcombe stared at the Scotland Yard man in a puzzled
way.
"I am afraid I don't quite understand, sergeant," he said a little
helplessly. "According to the published accounts, Sir Harris was
stabbed in his bed, presumably during the early morning hours, though
no sound was heard, and the crime wasn't discovered until his man went
to take Sir Harris his tea at the usual hour this morning. But perhaps
the accounts are inaccurate?"
"No, sir," said Sergeant Mullins; "as far as that goes, they're
accurate enough. The doctors say it must have been somewhere between
two and three o'clock in the morning."
"Quite so!" said Captain Francis Newcombe. "That is what I had in
mind. The last time I saw Sir Harris was yesterday evening at the
club. Sir Harris left the club shortly before I did. I have no exact
idea what the hour was, though the doorman would probably be able to
say, but I am quite certain it could not have been later than half past
eleven."
"It wasn't even as late as that, sir," said the man from Scotland Yard
seriously. "Ten after eleven, it was, when Sir Harris left; and you,
sir, at a quarter past. But I didn't say, sir, that you were the last
one as _spoke_ to Sir Harris alive. Conversation was what I said,
sir--and a lengthy one too. One says a lot in an hour or so, sir."
"Oh, I see!" said Captain Francis Newcombe, with a smile. "Or,
rather--I don't! What about this conversation, sergeant?"
"Well, sir, if you don't mind," said Detective-Sergeant Mullins,
"that's what I'd like to know--what it was about?"
"Good Lord!" gasped the ex-captain of territorials feebly. "I'm not
sure I know myself--now. What do men generally talk about over a
Scotch and soda? I believe we started with the subject of democracy,
and I'm afraid, in fact I'm certain, I talked a good bit of drivel, and
incidentally settled several of the world questions and so on, and then
we drifted from one thing to another in a desultory fashion."
"Yes, sir," said Sergeant Mullins. "And the things you drifted
to--could you remember them, sir? It's very important, sir, that you
should."
"Well, if it's important, I'll try," said Captain Francis Newcombe
gravely. "The shows, of course, and the American Yacht race, horses, a
hunting lodge Sir Harris had in Scotland, and--yes, I believe that's
all, sergeant. But it's quite a range, at that."
Detective-Sergeant Mullins inspected the bottom button of his waistcoat
intently.
"Sir Harris was a bit of a criminologist in his way, as perhaps you've
heard, sir?" he said.
"Yes, I believe I have heard it said that was a hobby of his," nodded
Captain Francis Newcombe. "But I wouldn't have known it from anything
Sir Harris said last night, if that's what you mean. The subject
wasn't mentioned."
"Nor any crime? And particularly any particular criminal?" prodded the
Scotland Yard man.
Captain Francis Newcombe shook his head.
"Not a word," he said.
Detective-Sergeant Mullins looked up a little gloomily from his
waistcoat button.
"I'm sorry for that," he said.
"So am I, if it would have helped any," said the ex-captain of
territorials heartily. "But what's the point, sergeant?"
"Well, you see, sir," said the Scotland Yard man, "with all due respect
to the dead, Sir Harris fancied himself a bit, he did, along those
lines. Some queer notions he had, sir--and stubborn, as you might say.
He's got himself into trouble more than once, and the Yard's had its
own time with him. He's been warned, sir, often enough--and if he was
alive, he wouldn't say he hadn't. It's what he's been told might
happen. There's no other reason, as far as we've gone, why he should
have been murdered. It looks the likely thing that he went too far
this time, and got to know more than some crook took a notion it was
safe to have him know."
Paul Cremarre smiled inscrutably at the Scotland Yard man.
"I take back what I said about it being a purposeless murder,
sergeant," he murmured.
"Yes, sir," said Detective-Sergeant Mullins. "Well, I fancy that's
all, gentlemen. We were hoping that if matters had reached as grave a
state as that--that is, if Sir Harris ever realised how deep he'd got
in--it would have been a bit on his mind, as you might say, and in the
course of a long conversation with a friend, sir, a hint of it, even if
he didn't go any further, might have cropped up." He buttoned his
coat. "You're quite sure, Captain Newcombe, thinking it over, that
there wasn't anything mentioned, even casually like, that would give us
a clue?"
"Quite, sergeant!" said the ex-captain of territorials emphatically.
"Well, I'll be going, then," said the Scotland Yard man. "And sorry to
have taken up your time, sir."
"You've done nothing but your duty," said Captain Francis Newcombe
pleasantly. He rang the bell. "Runnells, bring Sergeant Mullins a
drink!" And with a smile to the Scotland Yard man: "Will it be Scotch,
sergeant?"
"Why, thank you very much, sir," said Detective-Sergeant Mullins. He
took the glass from Runnells. "Here's how, sir!" He wiped his lips
with the back of his hand. "Good-night, gentlemen!"
"Good-night, sergeant," said the ex-captain of territorials.
"Good-night, sergeant," said the Frenchman.
Detective-Sergeant Mullins' footsteps died away in the hall.
Captain Francis Newcombe's dark eyes rested unemotionally upon the
Frenchman.
The Frenchman leaned against the mantel and stared at the end of his
cigarette.
The front door closed, and Runnells came back into the room.
"Now, Runnells," said Captain Francis Newcombe blandly, "bring us _all_
a drink, and we will talk about--to-morrow night."
--IV--
GOLD PLATE
A motor ran swiftly along a country road.
Two men sat in the front seat.
"My friend, Runnells," said one of the two quizzically, after a silence
that had endured for miles, "what in hell is the matter with you
to-night?"
"I don't know," said Runnells, who drove the car. "What the captain
was talking about last night, maybe--the things you feel in the air."
"Bah!" said Paul Cremarre composedly. "If it is only the air! For
three years we have found nothing in the air but good fortune."
"That's all right," Runnells returned sullenly. "But just the same
that's the way I feel, and I can't help it. We're going to lay low for
a spell after to-night, and maybe that's what's wrong too--kind of as
though we were pushing our luck over the edge by sticking it just one
night too many."
The Frenchman whistled a bar lightly under his breath.
"I should be delighted--_delighted_," he said, "to leave to-night
alone--but not the Earl of Cloverley's gold plate! Have you forgotten
that I told you I had made a promise to our little Père Mouche--to eat
_ragoût_ from a gold plate? I have never eaten from a gold plate. It
is a dream!"
"You're bloody well right, it is!" said Runnells gruffly. "And I only
hope it ain't going to be anything worse'n a dream to-night."
"It is evident," said Paul Cremarre, with a low laugh, "that, whatever
you have eaten _from_, and whatever you have eaten _of_, to-night, my
Runnells, it has not agreed with you! Is it not so?"
"Look here!" said Runnells suddenly. "If you want to know, I'll tell
you. I know everything's fixed for to-night, maybe better than it's
ever been fixed before--it ain't that. It's _last_ night. It's damned
queer, that bloke from Scotland Yard showing up in our rooms!"
"Ah!" murmured Paul Cremarre. "Yes, my Runnells, I too have thought of
that. But you were at home the night before, when Sir Harris Greaves
was murdered, you and the captain, were you not? It is nothing, is it?
A mere little coincidence--yes? You should know better than I do."
"There's nothing to know," said Runnells shortly. "It's just the idea
of a Scotland Yard man coming to _our_ diggings. Like a warning,
somehow, it looks."
"Yes," said Paul Cremarre. "Quite so! And the headlights now--hadn't
you better switch them off? And run a little slower, Runnells. It is
not far now, if I have made no mistake in my bearings."
Darkness fell upon the road; the motor slackened its speed.
"You were speaking of the visit from Scotland Yard," resumed the
Frenchman calmly. "You were at home, of course, when Captain Newcombe
returned from the club the night before last at--what time was it, he
said?"
"Oh, that's straight enough!" grunted Runnells. "He came in about half
past eleven, and we were both in bed by twelve. I've told you it ain't
that. What would he have to do with sticking an old toff like Sir
Harris that never done him any harm?"
"Nothing," said Paul Cremarre. "I was simply thinking that Sergeant
Mullins' theory reminded me of something that you, too, may perhaps
remember."
"What's that?" inquired Runnells.
"A rifle shot that was fired one night in a thicket when the Boche had
us on the run," said Paul Cremarre.
Runnells swung sharply in his seat.
"Gawd!" he said hoarsely. "What d'you want to bring _that_ up for
to-night? I--damn it--I can see it out there in the black of the road
now!"
The Frenchman remained silent.
Runnells spoke again after a moment.
"He's a rare 'un, all right, he is, is the captain," he said slowly;
"but it wasn't him that did in Sir Harris Greaves. I'd take my oath on
that. We was both in bed by twelve, as I told you, and he was still
sleeping like a babe when I got up in the morning."
"And you, Runnells," inquired the Frenchman softly, "you too slept
well?"
"You mean," said Runnells quickly, "that he slipped out again during
the night?"
"Not at all!" said Paul Cremarre quietly. "How should I know? I mean
nothing, except that Captain Francis Newcombe is a man like no other
man in the world; that he is, as I once had the honour to
remark--incomparable."
Runnells grunted over the wheel.
"I shan't ask him," he said tersely.
"Nor I," said Paul Cremarre.
Again there was silence; then the Frenchman spoke abruptly:
"Slower, Runnells. If I am not mistaken, we are arrived. The lodge
gates can't be more than a quarter of a mile on, and the bit of lane
that borders the park ought to be just about here--yes, there it is!"
Runnells stopped the motor; and then, with the engine running softly,
backed it for a short distance from the main road down an intensely
black, tree-lined lane.
"That's far enough," said Paul Cremarre. "We can't take any risk of
being heard from the Hall. Now edge her in under the trees."
"What for?" grumbled Runnells. "It's so bloody dark, I'd probably
smash her. She's right enough as she is. There's a fat chance of any
one coming along this here lane at two o'clock in the morning, ain't
there?"
"Runnells," said the Frenchman smoothly, "I quote from the book of
Captain Francis Newcombe: 'Chance is the playground of fools.' Edge
her in, my Runnells."
"Oh, all right!" said Runnells--and a moment later the lane was empty.
Still another moment, and the two men, each carrying two rather
large-sized, empty travelling bags, began to make their way silently
and cautiously through the thickly wooded park of the estate. It was
not easy going in the darkness. Now and then they stumbled. Once or
twice Runnells cursed fiercely under his breath; once or twice the
Frenchman lost his urbanity and swore softly in his native tongue.
Five, ten minutes passed. And now the two reached the farther edge of
the wooded park, and halted here, drawn back a little in the shadow of
the trees. Before them was a narrow breadth of lawn; and, beyond, a
great, rambling, turreted pile lay black even against the darkness, its
castellated roof and points making a jagged fringe against the sky line.
Runnells appeared suddenly to find vent for his ill humour in a savage
chuckle.
"What is it, Runnells?" demanded the Frenchman.
"I was just thinking that in the five or six years since I was here
with Lord Seeton, you know, I ain't forgotten his nibs the Earl of
Cloverley. I'd like to see his face in the morning! He's a crabbed
old bird. My word! He'll die of apoplexy, he will! And if he don't,
he won't be so keen on his 'ouse parties to visiting nabobs and cabinet
ministers. He didn't send into London and get his gold service out of
the bank for _us_ when we were here."
"Perhaps," said the Frenchman gently, "he did not know that you were
valeting Lord Seeton at the time--or perhaps it was because he did!"
"Aw, chuck it!" said Runnells gruffly. He stared at the black, shadowy
building for a minute. Then abruptly: "It's two o'clock, ain't it?
You looked, didn't you?"
"Yes," said Paul Cremarre. "I looked when we left the motor. The
time's right. It was just ten minutes of two."
"Well, what the blinking 'ell's the matter now, then?" complained
Runnells. "The place is as black as a cat. They're all in bed, aren't
they?"
"That is not for me to say," replied the Frenchman calmly. "We will
wait, Runnells."
Runnells, with another grunt, sat down on one of the bags, his back
against a tree. The Frenchman remained standing, his eyes glued on the
great house across the lawn.
"Aye," said Runnells after a moment, and chuckled savagely to himself
again, "I'd give a bob or two, I would, to see the old boy in the
morning! A fussy, nosey, old fidge-budget, that's what he is!
A-poking of his sharp little nose into everything, and always afraid
some 'un won't earn the measly screw he's paying for work he'd ought to
pay twice as much for! It's no wonder he's rich!"
"You seem to have very pleasant recollections of your visit, Runnells,"
said the Frenchman slyly. "I wonder what he caught you at?"
"He didn't catch _me_!" said Runnells defiantly. "Though I'll say
this, that if I'd known then that I was ever coming back now, I'd have
kept my eyes peeled, and he'd be going into mourning for more'n his
blessed gold plate to-night! He didn't bother me none, me being Lord
Seeton's man, but at that I saw enough of him so that the talk that
went on in the servants' hall wasn't in any foreign language that I
couldn't tumble to. My eye!" said Runnells. "A rare state he'll be
in!"
The Frenchman said nothing.
The minutes dragged along. Runnells too had relapsed into silence. A
quarter of an hour passed. Then Runnells commenced to mutter under his
breath and move restlessly on his improvised seat; and then, getting up
suddenly, he moved close over beside the Frenchman.
"I say!" whispered Runnells uneasily. "I don't like this, I don't!
What d'you suppose is up?"
"A great deal, I have no doubt, my Runnells," said the Frenchman
imperturbably. "More perhaps than you and I could overcome in the same
time--if at all."