THE MAN WHO WAS WRECKED
JOHN BENNETT was working in his garden in the early morning when Elk
called, and the inspector came straight to the point.
“There was a burglary committed at the residence of Lord Farmley on
Saturday night and Sunday morning. Probably between midnight and three
o’clock. The safe was blown and important documents stolen. I’m asking
you to account for your movements on Saturday night and Sunday morning.”
Bennett looked the detective straight in the eyes.
“I was on the London road—I walked from town. At two o’clock I was
speaking with a policeman in Dorking. At midnight I was in Kingbridge,
and again I spoke to a policeman. Both these men know me because I
frequently walk to Dorking and Kingbridge. The man at Dorking is an
amateur photographer like myself.”
Elk considered.
“I’ve a car here; suppose you come along and see these policemen?” he
suggested, and to his surprise Bennett agreed at once.
At Dorking they discovered their man; he was just going off duty.
“Yes, Inspector, I remember Mr. Bennett speaking to me. We were
discussing animal photography.”
“You’re sure of the time?”
“Absolutely. At two o’clock the patrol sergeant visits me, and he came
up whilst we were talking.”
The patrol sergeant, wakened from his morning sleep, confirmed this
statement. The result of the Kingbridge inquiries produced the same
results.
Elk ordered the driver of his car to return to Horsham.
“I’m not going to apologize to you, Bennett,” he said, “and you know
enough about my work to appreciate my position.”
“I’m not complaining,” said Bennett gruffly. “Duty is duty. But I’m
entitled to know why you suspect me of all men in the world.”
Elk tapped the window of the car and it stopped.
“Walk along the road: I can talk better,” he said.
They got out and went some distance without speaking.
“Bennett, you’re under suspicion for two reasons. You’re a mystery man
in the sense that nobody knows how you get a living. You haven’t an
income of your own. You haven’t an occupation, and at odd intervals you
disappear from home and nobody knows where you go. If you were a younger
man I’d suspect a double life in the usual sense. But you’re not that
kind. That is suspicious circumstance Number One. Here is Number Two.
Every time you disappear there’s a big burglary somewhere. And I’ve an
idea it’s a Frog steal. I’ll give you my theory. These Frogs are mostly
dirt. There isn’t enough brain in the whole outfit to fill an average
nut—I’m talking about the mass of ’em. There are clever men higher up,
I grant. But they don’t include the regular fellows who make a living
from crime. These boys haven’t any time for such nonsense. They plan a
job and pull it off, or they get pinched. If they make a getaway, they
divide up the stuff and sit around in cafés with girls till all the
stuff is gone, and then they go out for some more. But the Frogs are
willing to pay good men who are outside the organization for extra
work.”
“And you suggest that I may be one of the ‘good men’?” said Bennett.
“That’s just what I am suggesting. This Frog job at Lord Farmley’s was
done by an expert—it looks like Saul Morris.”
His keen eyes were focused upon Bennett’s face, but not by so much as a
flicker of an eyelash did he betray his thoughts.
“I remember Saul Morris,” said Bennett slowly. “I’ve never seen him, but
I’ve heard of his work. Was he—anything like me?”
Elk pursed his lips, his chin went nearer to his chest, and his gaze
became more and more intensified.
“If you know anything about Saul Morris,” he said slowly, “you also know
that he was never in the hands of the police, that nobody except his own
gang ever saw him, so as to be able to recognize him again.”
Another silence.
“I wasn’t aware of that,” said Bennett.
On the way back to the car, Bennett spoke again.
“I bear no malice. My movements are suspicious, but there is a good
reason. As to the burglaries—I know nothing about them. I should say
that in any case, whether I knew or not. I ask you not to mention this
matter to my daughter, because—well, you don’t want me to tell you
why.”
Ella was standing at the garden gate when the car came up, and at the
sight of Elk the smile left her face. Elk knew instinctively that the
thought of her brother, and the possibility of his being in trouble,
were the causes of her apprehension.
“Mr. Elk came down to ask me a few questions about the attack on Mr.
Gordon,” said her father briefly.
Whatever else he was, thought Elk, he was a poor and unconvincing liar.
That the girl was not convinced, he was sure. When they were alone she
asked:
“Is anything wrong, Mr. Elk?”
“Nothing, miss. Just come down to refresh my memory—which was never a
good one, especially in the matter of dates. The only date I really
remember is the landing of William the Conqueror—1140 or thereabouts.
Brother gone back to town?”
“He went last night,” she said, and then, almost defiantly: “He is in a
good position now, Mr. Elk.”
“So they tell me,” said Elk. “I wish he wasn’t working in the same shop
as the bunch who are with him. I’m not letting him out of my sight. Miss
Bennett,” he said in a kinder tone. “Perhaps I’ll be able to slip in the
right word one of these days. He wouldn’t listen now if I said
‘get!’—he’s naturally in the condition of mind when he’s making up
press cuttings about himself. And in a way he’s right. If you don’t know
it all at twenty-one you never will. What’s that word that begins with a
‘z’?—‘zenith,’ that’s it. He’s at the zenith of his
sure-and-certainness. From now on he’ll start unloading his cargo of
dreams an’ take in ballast. But he’ll hate to hear the derricks at
work.”
“You talk like a sailor,” she smiled in spite of her trouble.
“I was that once,” said Elk, “the same as old man Maitland—though I’ve
never sailed with him—I guess he left the sea years before I was born.
Like him?”
“Mr. Maitland? No!” she shivered. “I think he is a terrible man.”
Elk did not disagree.
To Dick Gordon that morning he confessed his error.
“I don’t know why I jumped at Bennett,” he said. “I’m getting young! I
see the evening newspapers have got the burglary.”
“But they do not know what was stolen,” said Dick in a low voice. “That
must be kept secret.”
They were in the inner bureau, which Dick occupied temporarily. Two men
were at work in his larger office replacing a panel which had been
shattered by the bullet which had been fired at him on the morning Elk
came into the case, and it was symptomatic of the effect that the Frogs
had had upon headquarters that both men had almost mechanically
scrutinized the left arms of the workmen. The sight of the damaged panel
switched Elk’s thoughts to a matter which he had intended raising
before—the identity of the tramp Carlo. In spite of the precautions
Gordon had taken, and although the man was under observation, Carlo had
vanished, and the combined efforts of headquarters and the country
offices had failed to locate him. It was a sore point with Gordon, as
Elk had reason to know.
For Carlo was the reputable “Number Seven,” the most important man in
the organization after the Frog himself.
“I’d like to see this Carlo,” he said thoughtfully. “There’s not much
use in putting another man out on the road to follow up Genter’s work.
That system doesn’t work twice. I wonder how much Lola knows?”
“Of the Frogs? They wouldn’t trust a woman,” said Dick. “She may work
for them, but, as you said, it is likely they bring in outsiders for
special jobs and pay them well.”
Elk did not carry the matter any further, and spent the rest of the day
in making fruitless inquiries. Returning to his room at headquarters
that night, he sat for a long time hunched up in his chair, his hands
thrust into his trousers pockets, staring down at the blotting-pad. Then
he pressed a bell, and his clerk, Balder, came.
“Go to Records, get me all that is known about every safe-breaker known
in this country. You needn’t worry about the German and French, but
there’s a Swede or two who are mighty clever with the lamp, and of
course there are the Americans.”
They came after a long interval—a considerable pile of papers,
photographs and finger-prints.
“You can go, Balder—the night man can take them back.” He settled
himself down to an enjoyable night’s reading.
He was nearing the end of the pile when he came to the portrait of a
young man with a drooping moustache and a bush of curly hair. It was one
of those sharp positives that unromantic police officials take, and
showed whatever imperfections of skin there were. Beneath the photograph
was the name, carefully printed: “Henry John Lyme, R.V.”
“R.V.” was the prison code. Every year from 1874 to 1899 was indicated
by a capital letter in the alphabet. Thereafter ran the small letters.
The “R” meant that Henry J. Lyme had been sentenced to penal servitude
in 1891. The “V” that he had suffered a further term of convict
imprisonment in 1895.
Elk read the short and terrible record. Born in Guernsey in 1873, the
man had been six times convicted before he was twenty (the minor
convictions are not designated by letters in the code). In the space at
the foot of the blank in which particulars were given of his crime, were
the words:
“Dangerous; carries firearms.” In another hand, and in the red ink which
is used to close a criminal career, was written: “Died at sea. _Channel
Queen_. Black Rock. Feb. 1, 1898.”
Elk remembered the wreck of the Guernsey mail packet on the Black Rocks.
He turned back the page to read particulars of the dead man’s crimes,
and the comments of those who from time to time had been brought into
official contact with him. In these scraps of description was the real
biography. “Works alone,” was one comment, and another; “No women
clue—women never seen with him.” A third scrawl was difficult to
decipher, but when Elk mastered the evil writing, he half rose from the
chair in his excitement. It was:
“Add to body marks in general D.C.P. 14 frog tattooed left
wrist. New. J. J. M.”
The date against which this was written was the date of the man’s last
conviction. Elk turned up the printed blank “D.C.P.14” and found it to
be a form headed “Description of Convicted Person.” The number was the
classification. There was no mention of tattooed frogs: somebody had
been careless. Word by word he read the description:
“Henry John Lyme, _a._ Young Harry, _a._ Thomas Martin, _a._ Boy
Peace, _a._ Boy Harry (there were five lines of aliases).
Burglar (dangerous; carries firearms). Height 5 ft. 6 in. Chest
38. Complexion fresh, eyes grey, teeth good, mouth regular,
dimple in chin. Nose straight. Hair brown, wavy, worn long. Face
round. Moustache drooping; wears side-whiskers. Feet and hands
normal. Little toe left foot amputated first joint owing to
accident, H.M. Prison, Portland. Speaks well, writes good hand.
Hobbies none. Smokes cigarettes. Poses as public official, tax
collector, sanitary inspector, gas or water man. Speaks French
and Italian fluently. Never drinks; plays cards but no gambler.
Favourite hiding place, Rome or Milan. No conviction abroad. No
relations. Excellent organizer. Immediately after crime, look
for him at good hotel in Midlands or working to Hull for the
Dutch or Scandinavian boats. Has been known to visit
Guernsey. . . .”
Here followed the Bertillon measurements and body marks—this was in the
days before the introduction of the finger-print system. But there was
no mention of the Frog on the left wrist. Elk dropped his pen in the ink
and wrote in the missing data. Underneath he added:
“This man may still be alive,” and signed his initials.