THE OFFENSIVE RAY
IT was perfectly absurd, Dick told himself a dozen times during the days
which followed, that a grown man of his experience should punctiliously
and solemnly strike from the calendar, one by one, the days which
separated him from Sunday. A schoolboy might so behave, but it would
have to be a very callow schoolboy. And a schoolboy might sit at his
desk and dream away the time that might have been devoted to official
correspondence.
A pretty face . . . ? Dick had admired many. A graciousness of carriage,
an inspiring refinement of manner . . . ? He gave up the attempt to
analyse the attraction which Ella Bennett held. All that he knew was,
that he was waiting impatiently for Sunday.
When Dick opened the garden gate, he saw the plump figure of
philosophical Johnson ensconced cosily in a garden chair. The secretary
rose with a beaming smile and held out his hand. Dick liked the man. He
stood for that patient class which, struggling under the stifling
handicap of its own mediocrity, has its superlative virtue in loyalty
and unremitting application to the task it finds at hand.
“Ray told me you were coming, Mr. Gordon—he is with Miss Bennett in the
orchard, and from a casual view of him just now, he is hearing a few
home truths. What do you make of it?”
“Has he given up coming to the office?” asked Dick, as he stripped his
dust-coat.
“I am afraid he is out for good.” Johnson’s face was sad. “I had to tell
him to go. The old man found out that he’d been staying away, and by
some uncanny and underground system of intelligence he has learnt that
Ray was going the pace. He had an accountant in to see the books, but
thank heaven they were O.K.! I was very nearly fired myself.”
This was an opportunity not to be missed.
“Do you know where Maitland lives—in what state? Has he a town house?”
Johnson smiled.
“Oh yes, he has a town house all right,” he said sarcastically. “I only
discovered where it was a year ago, and I’ve never told a single soul
until now. And even now I won’t give details. But old Maitland is living
in some place that is nearly a slum—living meanly and horribly like an
unemployed labourer! And he is worth millions! He has a cheap house in
one of the suburbs, a place I wouldn’t use to stable a cow! He and his
sister live there; she looks after the place and does the housekeeping.
I guess she has a soft job. I’ve never known Maitland to spend a penny
on himself. I’m sure that he is wearing the suit he wore when I first
came to him. He has a penny glass of milk and a penny roll for lunch,
and tries to swindle me into paying for that, some days!”
“Tell me, Mr. Johnson, why does the old man wear gloves in the office?”
Johnson shook his head.
“I don’t know. I used to think it was to hide the scar on the back of
his hand, but he’s not the kind of man to wear gloves for that. He is
tattooed with crowns and anchors and dolphins all up his arms. . . .”
“And frogs?” asked Dick quietly, and the question seemed to surprise the
other.
“No, I’ve never seen a frog. There’s a bunch of snakes on one
wrist—I’ve seen that. Why, old man Maitland wouldn’t be a Frog, would
he?” he asked, and Dick smiled at the anxiety in his tone.
“I wondered,” he said.
Johnson’s usually cheerful countenance was glum.
“I reckon he is mean enough to be a Frog or ’most anything,” he said,
and at that minute Ray and his sister came into view. On Ray’s forehead
sat a thundercloud, which deepened at the sight of Dick Gordon. The girl
was flushed and obviously on the verge of tears.
“Hallo, Gordon!” the boy began without preliminary. “I fancy you’re the
fellow that has been carrying yarns to my sister. You set Elk to spy on
me—I know, because I found Elk in the act——”
“Ray, you’re not to speak like that to Mr. Gordon,” interrupted the girl
hotly. “He has never told me anything to your discredit. All I know I
have seen. You seem to forget that Mr. Gordon is father’s guest.”
“Everybody is fussing over me,” Ray grumbled. “Even old Johnson!” He
grinned sheepishly at the bald man, but Johnson did not return the
smile.
“Somebody has got to worry about you, boy,” he said.
The strained situation was only relieved when John Bennett, camera on
back, came up the red path to greet his visitors.
“Why, Mr. Johnson, I owe you many apologies for putting you off, but I’m
glad to see you here at last. How is Ray doing at the office?”
Johnson shot a helpless and pathetic glance at Dick.
“Er—fine, Mr. Bennett,” he blurted.
So John Bennett was not to be told that his son had launched forth on a
new career? The fact that he was fathering this deception made Dick
Gordon a little uncomfortable. Apparently it reduced Mr. Johnson to
despair, for when a somewhat tense luncheon had ended and they were
alone again in the garden, that worthy man unburdened himself of his
trouble.
“I feel that I’m playing it low on old Bennett,” he said. “Ray should
have told him.”
Dick could only agree. He was in no mood to discuss Ray at the moment.
The boy’s annoyance and self-assurance irritated him, and it did not
help matters to recognize the sudden and frank hostility which the
brother of Ella Bennett was showing toward him. That was disconcerting,
and emphasized his anomalous position in relation to the Bennetts. He
was discovering what many young men in love have to discover: that the
glamour which surrounds their dears does not extend to the relations and
friends of their dears. He made yet another discovery. The plump Mr.
Johnson was in love with the girl. He was nervous and incoherent in her
presence; miserable when she went away. More miserable still when Dick
boldly took her arm and led her into the rose-garden behind the house.
“I don’t know why that fellow comes here,” said Ray savagely as the two
disappeared. “He isn’t a man of our class, and he loathes me.”
“I don’t know that he loathes you, Ray,” said Johnson, waking from the
unhappy daydream into which he seemed to have fallen. “He’s an extremely
nice man——”
“Fiddlesticks!” said the other scornfully. “He’s a snob! Anyway, he’s a
policemen, and I hate cops! If you imagine the he doesn’t look good on
you and me, you’re wrong. I’m as good as he is, and I bet I’ll make more
money before I’m finished!”
“Money isn’t everything,” said Johnson tritely. “What work are you
doing, Ray?”
It required a great effort on his part to bring his mind back to his
friend’s affairs.
“I can’t tell you. It’s very confidential,” said Ray mysteriously. “I
couldn’t even tell Ella, though she’s been jawing at me for hours. There
are some jobs that a man can’t speak about without betraying secrets
that aren’t his to tell. This is one of them.”
Mr. Johnson said nothing. He was thinking of Ella and wondering how long
it would be before her good-looking companion brought her back.
Good-looking and young. Mr. Johnson was not good-looking, and only just
on the right side of fifty. And he was bald. But, worst of all, in her
presence he was tongue-tied. He was rather amazed with himself.
In the seclusion of the rose-garden another member of the Bennett family
was relating her fears to a more sympathetic audience.
“I feel that father guesses,” she said. “He was out most of last night.
I was awake when he came in, and he looked terrible. He said he had been
walking about half the night, and by the mud on his boots I think he
must have been.”
Dick did not agree.
“Knowing very little about Mr. Bennett, I should hardly think he is the
kind of man to suffer in silence where your brother is concerned,” he
said. “I could better imagine a most unholy row. Why has your brother
become so unpleasant to me?”
She shook her head.
“I don’t know. Ray has changed suddenly. This morning when he kissed me,
his breath smelt of whisky—he never used to drink. This new life is
ruining him—why should he take a false name if . . . if the work he is
doing is quite straight?”
She had ceased addressing him as “Mr. Gordon.” The compromise of calling
him by no name at all was very pleasant to Dick Gordon, because he
recognized that it _was_ a compromise. The day was hot and the sky
cloudless. Ella had made arrangements to serve tea on the lawn, and she
found two eager helpers in Dick and Johnson, galvanized to radiant
activity by the opportunity of assisting. The boy’s attitude remained
antagonistic, and after a few futile attempts to overcome this, Dick
gave it up.
Even the presence of his father, who had kept aloof from the party all
afternoon, brought no change for the better.
“The worst of being a policeman is that you’re always on duty,” he said
during the meal. “I suppose you’re storing every scrap of talk in your
mind, in case you have to use it.”
Dick folded a thin slice of bread and butter very deliberately before he
replied.
“I have certainly a good memory,” he said. “It helps me to forget. It
also helps me keep silent in circumstances which are very difficult and
trying.”
Suddenly Ray spun round in his chair.
“I told you he was on duty!” he cried triumphantly. “Look! There’s the
chief of the spy corps! The faithful Elk!”
Dick looked in astonishment. He had left Elk on the point of going north
to follow up a new Frog clue that had come to light. And there he was,
his hands resting on the gate, his chin on his chest, gazing mournfully
over his glasses at the group.
“Can I come in, Mr. Bennett?”
John Bennett, alert and watchful, beckoned.
“Happened to be round about here, so I thought I’d call. Good afternoon,
miss—good afternoon, Mr. Johnson.”
“Give Sergeant Elk your chair,” growled John Bennett, and his son rose
with a scowl.
“Inspector,” said Elk. “No, I’d rather stand, mister. Stand and grow
good, eh? Yes, I’m Inspector. I don’t realize it myself sometimes,
especially when the men salute me—forget to salute ’em back. Now, in
America I believe patrol men salute sergeants. That’s as it should be.”
His sad eyes moved from one to the other.
“I suppose your promotion has made a lot of crooks very scared, Elk?”
sneered Ray.
“Why, yes. I believe it has. Especially the amatchoors,” said Elk. “The
crooks that are only fly-nuts. The fancy crooks, who think they know it
all, and will go on thinking so till one day somebody says, ‘Get your
hat—the chief wants you!’ Otherwise,” confessed Elk modestly, “the news
has created no sensation, and London is just as full as ever of
tale-pitchers who’ll let you distribute their money amongst the poor if
you’ll only loan ’em a hundred to prove your confidence. And,” Elk
continued after a moment’s cogitation, “there’s nearly as many dud
prize-fighters living on blackmail an’ robbery, an’ almost as many
beautiful young ladies running faro parlours and dance emporiums.”
Ray’s face went a dull red, and if looks could blast, Inspector Elk’s
friends would have been speaking of him in hushed tones.
Only then did he turn his attention to Dick Gordon.
“I was wondering, Captain, if I could have a day off next week—I’ve a
little family trouble.”
Dick, who did not even know that his friend had a family was startled.
“I’m sorry to hear that, Elk,” he said sympathetically.
Elk sighed.
“It’s hard on me,” he said, “but I feel I ought to tell you, if you’ll
excuse me, Miss Bennett?”
Dick rose and followed the detective to the gate, and then Elk spoke in
a low tone.
“Lord Farmley’s house was burgled at one o’clock this morning, and the
Frogs have got away with the draft treaty!”
Watching the two furtively, the girl saw nothing in Dick Gordon’s
demeanour to indicate that he had received any news which was of
consequence to himself. He came slowly back to the table.
“I am afraid I must go,” he said. “Elk’s trouble is sufficiently
important to take me back to town.”
He saw the regret in Ella’s eyes and was satisfied. The leave-taking was
short, for it was very necessary that he should get back to town as
quickly as his car could carry him.
On the journey Elk told all that he knew. Lord Farmley had spent the
week-end in his town house. He was working on two new clauses which had
been inserted on the private representation of the American ambassador,
who, as usual, held a watching brief in the matter, but managed (also as
usual) to secure the amendment of a clause dealing with transshipments
that, had it remained unamended, would have proved detrimental to his
country. All this Dick learnt later. He was unaware at the time that the
embassy knew of the treaty’s existence.
Lord Farmley had replaced the document in the safe, which was a “Cham”
of the latest make, and built into the wall of his study, locked and
double-locked the steel doors, switched on the burglar alarm, and went
to bed.
He had no occasion to go to the safe until after lunch. To all
appearances, the safe-doors had not been touched. After lunch, intending
to work again on the treaty, he put his key in the lock, to discover
that, when it turned, the wards met no resistance. He pulled at the
handle. It came away in his hand. The safe was open in the sense that it
was not locked, and the treaty, together with his notes and amendments,
had gone.
“How did they get in?” asked Dick as the car whizzed furiously along the
country road.
“Pantry window—butlers’ pantries were invented by a burglar-architect,”
said Elk. “It’s a real job—the finest bit of work I’ve seen in twenty
years, and there are only two men in the world who could have done it.
No finger-prints, no ugly holes blown into the safe, everything neat and
beautifully done. It’s a pleasure to see.”
“I hope Lord Farmley has got as much satisfaction out of the workmanship
as you have,” said Dick grimly, and Elk sniffed.
“He wasn’t laughing,” he said, “at least, not when I came away.”
His lordship was not laughing when Elk returned.
“This is terrible, Gordon—terrible! We’re holding a Cabinet on the
matter this evening; the Prime Minister has returned to town. This means
political ruin for me.”
“You think the Frogs are responsible?”
Lord Farmley’s answer was to pull open the door of the safe. On the
inside panel was a white imprint, an exact replica of that which Elk had
seen on the door of Mr. Broad’s flat. It was almost impossible for the
non-expert to discover how the safe had been opened. It was Elk who
showed the fine work that had extracted the handle and had enabled the
thieves to shatter the lock by some powerful explosive which nobody in
the house had heard.
“They used a silencer,” said Elk. “It’s just as easy to prevent gases
escaping too quickly from a lock as it is from a gun barrel. I tell you,
there are only two men who could have done this.”
“Who are they?”
“Young Harry Lyme is one—he’s been dead for years. And Saul Morris is
the other—and Saul’s dead too.”
“As the work is obviously not that of two dead men, you would be well
advised to think of a third,” said his lordship, pardonably annoyed.
Elk shook his head slowly.
“There must be a third, and he’s the cleverest of the lot,” he said,
speaking his thoughts aloud. “I know the lot—Wal Cormon, George the
Rat, Billy Harp, Ike Velleco, Pheeny Moore—and I’ll take an oath that
it wasn’t any of them. This is master work, my lord. It’s the work of a
great artist such as we seldom meet nowadays. And I fancy I know who he
is.”
Lord Farmley, who had listened as patiently as he could to this
rhapsody, stalked from the library soon after, leaving the men alone.
“Captain,” said Elk, walking after the peer and closing the door, “do
you happen to know where old Bennett was last night?”
Elk’s tone was careless, but Dick Gordon felt the underlying
significance of the question, and for a moment, realizing all that lay
behind the question, all that it meant to the girl, who was dearer to
him than he had guessed, his breath came more quickly.
“He was out most of the night,” he said. “Miss Bennett told me that he
went away on Friday and did not return until this morning at daybreak.
Why?”
Elk took a paper from his pocket, unfolded it slowly and adjusted his
glasses.
“I’ve had a man keeping tag of Bennett’s absences from home,” he said
slowly. “It was easy, because the woman who goes every morning to clean
his house has a wonderful memory. He has been away fifteen times this
past year, and every time he has gone there’s been a first-class
burglary committed somewhere!”
Dick drew a long breath.
“What are you suggesting?” he asked.
“I’m suggesting,” replied Elk deliberately, “that if Bennett can’t
account for his movements on Saturday night, I’m going to pull him in.
Saul Morris I’ve never met, nor young Wal Cormon either—they were
before I did big work. But if my idea is right, Saul Morris isn’t as
dead as he ought to be. I’m going down to see Brother Bennett, and I
think perhaps I’ll be doing a bit of resurrecting!”