ON HARLEY TERRACE
SO writing, the telephone buzzed, and in his unflurried way he finished
his entry and blotted it before he took up the instrument.
“Captain Gordon wishes you to take the first taxi you can find and come
to his house—the matter is very urgent,” said a voice. “I am speaking
from Harley Terrace.”
“All right.” Elk found his hat and umbrella, stopped long enough to
return the records to their home, and went out into the dark courtyard.
There are two entrances to Scotland Yard: one that opens into Whitehall
and was by far the best route for him, since Whitehall is filled with
cabs; the other on to the Thames Embankment, which, in addition to
offering the longest way round, would bring him to a thoroughfare where,
at this hour of the night, taxis would be few and far between. So
engrossed was Elk with his thoughts that he was on the Embankment before
he realized where he was going. He turned toward the Houses of
Parliament into Bridge Street, found an ancient cab and gave the
address. The driver was elderly and probably a little fuddled, for,
instead of stopping at No. 273, he overshot the mark by a dozen houses,
and only stopped at all on the vitriolic representations of his fare.
“What’s the matter with you, Noah?—this ain’t Mount Ararat!” snapped
Elk as he descended. “You’re boozed, you poor fish.”
“Wish I was,” murmured the driver, holding out his hand for the fare.
Elk would have argued the matter but for the urgency of the summons.
Whilst he was waiting for the driver to unbutton his many coats to find
change, he glanced back along the street. A car was standing near the
door of Dick Gordon’s house, its headlights dimmed to the least possible
degree. That in itself was not remarkable. The two men who waited on the
pavement were. They stood with their backs to the railings, one (as he
guessed) on either side of the door. To him came the soft purring of the
motor-car’s engine. He took a step back and brought the opposite
pavement into his range of vision. There were two other men, also
lounging idly, and they were exactly opposite 273.
Elk looked round. The cab had stopped before a doctor’s house, and the
detective did not take a long time to make up his mind.
“Wait till I come out.”
“Don’t be long,” pleaded the aged driver. “The bars will be shut in a
quarter of an hour.”
“Wait, Batchus,” said Elk, who had a nodding acquaintance with ancient
mythology, but only a hazy idea of pronunciation. Bacchus growled, but
waited.
Fortunately, the doctor was at home, and to him Elk revealed his
identity. In a few seconds he was connected with Mary Lane Police
Station.
“Elk, Central Office, speaking,” he said rapidly, and gave his code
number. “Send every man you can put your hand on, to close Harley
Terrace north and south of 273. Stop all cars from the moment you get my
signal—two long two short flashes. How soon can your men be in place?”
“In five minutes, Mr. Elk. The night reliefs are parading, and I have a
couple of motor-trucks here—just pinched the drivers for being drunk.”
He replaced the receiver and went into the hall.
“Anything wrong?” asked the startled doctor as Elk slid back the jacket
of his automatic and pushed the safety catch into place.
“I hope so, sir,” said Elk truthfully. “If I’ve turned out the division
because a few innocent fellows are leaning against the railings of
Harley Terrace, I’m going to get myself into trouble.”
He waited five minutes, then opened the door and went out. The men were
still in their positions, and as he stood there two motor-trucks drove
into the thoroughfare from either end, turned broadside in the middle of
the road and stopped.
Elk’s pocket lamp flashed to left and right, and he jumped for the
pavement.
And now he saw that his suspicions were justified. The men on the
opposite pavement came across the road at the double, and leapt to the
running-board of the car with the dim lights as it moved. Simultaneously
the two who had been guarding the entrance of 273 sprang into the
machine. But the fugitives were too late. The car swerved to avoid the
blocking motor-truck, but even as it turned, the truck ran backwards.
There was a crash, a sound of splintering glass, and by the time Elk
arrived, the five occupants of the car were in the hands of the
uniformed policemen who swarmed at the end of the street.
The prisoners accepted their capture without resistance. One (the
chauffeur) who tried to throw away a revolver unobtrusively, was
detected in the act and handcuffed, but the remainder gave no trouble.
At the police-station Elk had a view of his prisoners. Four very fine
specimens of the genus tramp, wearing their new ready-to-wear suits
awkwardly. The fifth, who gave a Russian name, and was obviously the
driver, a little man with small, sharp eyes that glanced uneasily from
face to face.
Two of the prisoners carried loaded revolvers; in the car they found
four walking-sticks heavily weighted.
“Take off your coats and roll up your sleeves,” commanded the inspector.
“You needn’t trouble, Elk.” It was the little chauffeur speaking. “All
us boys are good Frogs.”
“There ain’t any good Frogs,” said Elk. “There’s only bad Frogs and
worse Frogs and the worst Frog of all. But we won’t argue. Let these men
into their cells, sergeant, and keep them separate. I’ll take Litnov to
headquarters.”
The chauffeur looked uneasily from Elk to the station sergeant.
“What’s the great idea?” he asked. “You’re not allowed to use the third
degree in England.”
“The law has been altered,” said Elk ominously, and re-snapped the
handcuffs on the man’s wrists.
The law had not been altered, but this the little Russian did not know.
Throughout the journey to headquarters he communed with himself, and
when he was pushed into Elk’s bare-looking room, he was prepared to
talk. . . .
Dick was waiting for the detective when he came back to Harley Terrace,
and heard the story.
“I never dreamt that it was a plant until I spotted the lads waiting for
me,” said Elk. “Of course you didn’t telephone; they caught me napping
there. Thorough! The Frogs are all that! They expected me to leave
headquarters by the Whitehall entrance, and had a taxi waiting to pick
me up, but in case they missed me that way, they told off a party to
meet me in Harley Terrace. Thorough!”
“Who gave them their orders?”
Elk shrugged.
“Mr. Nobody. Litnov had his by post. It was signed ‘Seven,’ and gave him
the rendezvous, and that was all. He says he has never seen a Frog since
he was initiated. Where he was sworn in he doesn’t remember. The car
belongs to Frogs, and he receives so much a week for looking after it.
Ordinarily he is employed by Heron’s Club—drives a truck for them. He
tells me that there are twenty other cars cached in London somewhere,
just standing in their garages, and each has its own driver, who goes
once a week to give it a clean up.”
“Heron’s Club—that is the dance club which Lola and Lew Brady are
interested in!” said Dick thoughtfully, and Elk considered.
“I never thought of that. Of course, it doesn’t mean that the management
of Heron’s know anything about Litnov’s evening work. I’ll look up that
club.”
He was saved the trouble, for the next morning, when he reached the
office, he found a man waiting to see him.
“I’m Mr. Hagn, the manager of the Heron’s Club,” he introduced himself.
“I understand one of my men has been in trouble.”
Hagn was a tall, good-looking Swede who spoke without any trace of a
foreign accent.
“How have you heard that, Mr. Hagn?” asked Elk suspiciously. “The man
has been under lock and key since last night, and he hasn’t held any
communication with anybody.”
Mr. Hagn smiled.
“You can’t arrest people and take them to a police-station without
somebody knowing all about it,” he said with truth. “One of my waiters
saw Litnov being taken to Mary Lane handcuffed, and as Litnov hasn’t
reported for duty this morning, there was only one conclusion to be
drawn. What is the trouble, Mr. Elk?”
Elk shook his head.
“I can’t give you any information on the matter,” he said.
“Can I see him?”
“You can’t even see him,” said Elk. “He has slept well, and sends his
love to all kind friends.”
Mr. Hagn seemed distressed.
“Is it possible to discover where he put the key of the coal cellar?” he
urged. “This is rather important to me. This man usually keeps it.”
The detective hesitated.
“I can find out,” he said, and, leaving Mr. Hagn under the watchful eyes
of his secretary, he crossed the yard to the cells where the Russian was
held.
Litnov rose from his plank bed as the cell door opened.
“Friend of yours called,” said Elk. “Wants to know where you put the key
of the coal cellar.”
It was only the merest flicker of light and understanding that came to
the little man’s eyes, but Elk saw it.
“Tell him I believe I left it with the Wandsworth man,” he said.
“Um!” said Elk, and went back to the waiting Hagn.
“He said he left it in the Pentonville Road,” said Elk untruthfully, but
Mr. Hagn seemed satisfied.
Returning to the cells, Elk saw the gaoler.
“Has this man asked you where he was to be taken from here?”
“Yes, sir,” said the officer. “I told him he was going to Wandsworth
Prison—we usually tell prisoners where they are going on remand, in
case they wish to let their relatives know.”
Elk had guessed right. The inquiry about the key was prearranged. A
telephone message to Mary Lane, where the remainder of the gang were
held, produced the curious information that a woman, reputedly the wife
of one of the men, had called that morning, and, on being refused an
interview, begged for news about the missing key of the coal cellar, and
had been told that it was in the possession of “the Brixton man.”
“The men are to be remitted to Wormwood Scrubbs Prison, and they are not
to be told where they are going,” ordered Elk.
That afternoon a horse-driven prison-van drew out of Cannon Row and
rumbled along Whitehall. At the juncture of St. Martin’s Lane and
Shaftesbury Avenue, a carelessly-driven motor lorry smashed into its
side, slicing off the near wheel. Instantly there came from nowhere a
crowd of remarkable appearance. It seemed as if all the tramps in the
world had been lying in wait to crowd about the crippled van. The door
was wrenched open, and the gaoler on duty hauled forth. Before he could
be handled, the van disgorged twenty Central Office men, and from the
side streets came a score of mounted policemen, clubs in hand. The riot
lasted less then three minutes. Some of the wild-looking men succeeded
in making their escape, but the majority, chained in twos, went, meekly
enough, between their mounted escorts.
Dick Gordon, who was also something of an organizer, watched the fight
from the top of an omnibus, which, laden with policemen, had shadowed
the van. He joined Elk after the excitement had subsided.
“Have you arrested anybody of importance?” he asked.
“It’s too early to say,” said Elk. “They look like ordinary tadpoles to
me. I guess Litnov is in Wandsworth by now—I sent him in a closed
police car before the van left.”
Arrived at Scotland Yard, he paraded the Frogs in two open ranks,
watched, at a distance, by the curious crowd which packed both
entrances. One by one he examined their wrists, and in every case the
tattoo mark was present.
He finished his scrutiny at last, and his captives were herded into an
inner yard under an armed guard.
“One man wants to speak to you, sir.”
The last file had disappeared when the officer in charge reported, and
Elk exchanged a glance with his chief.
“See him,” said Dick. “We can’t afford to miss any information.”
A policeman brought the Frog to them—a tall man with a week’s growth of
beard, poorly dressed and grimy. His battered hat was pulled down over
his eyes, his powerful wrists visible beneath the sleeves of a jacket
that was made for a smaller man.
“Well, Frog?” said Elk, glowering at him. “What’s your croak?”
“Croak is a good word,” said the man, and at the sound of his voice Elk
stared. “You don’t think that old police car of yours is going to reach
Wandsworth, do you?”
“Who are you?” asked Elk, peering forward.
“They want Litnov badly,” said the Frog. “They want to settle with him,
and if the poor fish thinks it’s brotherly love that makes old man Frog
go to all this trouble, he’s reserved a big jar for himself.”
“Broad! What . . . !”
The American licked his finger and wiped away the frog from his wrist.
“I’ll explain after, Mr. Elk, but take a friend’s advice and call up
Wandsworth.”
Elk’s telephone was buzzing furiously when he reached his office.
It was Wandsworth station calling.
“Your police car was held up on the Common, two of your men were
wounded, and the prisoner was shot dead,” was the report.
“Thank you!” said Elk bitterly.