A RAID ON ELDOR STREET
JOHNSON did not come back, and in many respects the two men were glad.
Elk had been on the point of telling the secretary to clear, and he
hoped that Mr. Maitland would follow his example. As if reading his
thoughts, the old man rose soon after the room had quietened down. He
had sat through the scene which had followed Ray’s meeting with his
father, and had apparently displayed not the slightest interest in the
proceedings. It was as though his mind were so far away that he could
not bring himself to a realization of actualities.
“He’s going, and he hasn’t paid his bill,” whispered Elk.
In spite of his remissness, the aged millionaire was escorted to the
door by the three chief waiters, his top-coat, silk hat and
walking-stick were brought to him, and he was out of Dick Gordon’s sight
before the bowing servants had straightened themselves.
Elk looked at his watch: it wanted five minutes of one. Hagn had not
returned—a circumstance which irritated the detective and was a source
of uneasiness to Dick Gordon. The merriment again worked up to its
highest point, when the two men rose from the table and strolled toward
the door. A waiter came after them hurriedly.
“Monsieur has not paid his bill.”
“We will pay that later,” said Dick, and at that moment the hands of the
clock pointed to the hour.
Precisely five minutes later the club was in the hands of the police. By
1.15 it was empty, save for the thirty raiding detectives and the staff.
“Where is Hagn?” Dick asked the chief waiter.
“He has gone home, monsieur,” said the man sullenly. “He always goes
home early.”
“That’s a lie,” said Elk. “Show me to his room.”
Hagn’s office was in the basement, a part of the old mission hall that
had remained untouched. They were shown to a large, windowless cubicle,
comfortably furnished, which was Hagn’s private bureau, but the man had
disappeared. Whilst his subordinates were searching for the books and
examining, sheet by sheet, the documents in the clerk’s office, Elk made
an examination of the room. In one corner was a small safe, upon which
he put the police seal; and lying on a sofa in some disorder was a suit
of clothes, evidently discarded in a hurry. Elk looked at them, carried
them under the ceiling light, and examined them. It was the suit Hagn
had been wearing when he had shown them to their seats.
“Bring in that head waiter,” said Elk.
The head waiter either wouldn’t or couldn’t give information.
“Mr. Hagn always changes his clothes before he goes home,” he said.
“Why did he go before the club was closed?”
The man shrugged his shoulders.
“I don’t know anything about his private affairs,” he said, and Elk
dismissed him.
Against the wall was a dressing-table and a mirror, and on each side of
the mirror stood a small table-lamp, which differed from other
table-lamps in that it was not shaded. Elk turned the switch, and in the
glaring light scrutinized the table. Presently he found two wisps of
hair, and held them against the sleeve of his black coat. In the drawer
he found a small bottle of spirit gum, and examined the brush. Then he
picked up a little wastepaper basket and turned its contents upon the
table. He found a few torn bills, business letters, a tradesman’s
advertisement, three charred cigarette ends, and some odd scraps of
paper. One of these was covered with gum and stuck together.
“I reckon he wiped the brush on this,” said Elk, and with some
difficulty pulled the folded slip apart.
It was typewritten, and consisted of three lines:
“Urgent. See Seven at E.S.2. No raid. Get M.’s
statement. Urgent. F.1.”
Dick took the paper from his subordinate’s hand and read it.
“He’s wrong about the no raid,” he said. “E. S., of course, is Eldor
Street, and two is either the number two or two o’clock.”
“Who’s ‘M.’?” asked Elk, frowning.
“Obviously Mills—the man we caught at Wandsworth. He made a written
statement, didn’t he?”
“He has signed one,” said Elk thoughtfully.
He turned the papers over, and after a while found what he was looking
for—a small envelope. It was addressed in typewritten characters to “G.
V. Hagn,” and bore on the back the stamp of the District Messenger
service.
The staff were still held by the police, and Elk sent for the
doorkeeper.
“What time was this delivered?” he asked.
The man was an ex-soldier, the only one of the prisoners who seemed to
feel his position.
“It came at about nine o’clock, sir,” he said readily, and produced the
letter-book in confirmation. “It was brought by a District Messenger
boy,” he explained unnecessarily.
“Does Mr. Hagn get many notes by District Messenger?”
“Very few, sir,” said the doorkeeper, and added an anxious inquiry as to
his own fate.
“You can go,” said Elk. “Under escort,” he added, “to your own home.
You’re not to communicate with anybody, or tell any of the servants here
that I have made inquiries about this letter. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
To make assurance doubly sure, Elk had called up exchange and placed a
ban upon all ’phone communications. It was now a quarter to two, and,
leaving half-a-dozen detectives in charge of the club, he got the
remainder on to the car that had brought them, and, accompanied by Dick,
went full speed for Tottenham.
Within a hundred yards of Eldor Street the car stopped and unloaded. The
first essential was that whoever was meeting No. 7 in Eldor Street
should not be warned of their approach. It was more than possible that
Frog scouts would be watching at each end of the street.
“I don’t know why they should,” said Elk, when Dick put this possibility
forward.
“I can give you one very excellent reason,” said Dick quietly. “It is
this: that the Frogs know all about your previous visit to Maitland’s
slum residence.”
“What makes you think that?” asked Elk in surprise, but Dick did not
enlighten him.
Sending the men round by circuitous routes, he went forward with Elk,
and at the very corner of Eldor Street, Elk found that his chief’s
surmise was well founded. Under a lamp-post Elk saw the dim figure of a
man standing, and instantly began an animated and raucous conversation
concerning a mythical Mr. Brown. Realizing that this was intended for
the watcher, Gordon joined in. The man under the lamp-post hesitated
just a little too long. As they came abreast of him, Elk turned.
“Have you got a match?” he asked.
“No,” growled the other, and the next instant was on the ground, with
Elk’s knee on his chest and the detective’s bony hand around his throat.
“Shout, Frog, and I’ll throttle you,” hissed the detective ferociously.
There was no scuffle, no sound. The thing was done so quickly that, if
there were other watchers in the street, they could not have known what
had happened, or have received any warning from their comrade’s fate.
The man was in the hands of the following detective, gagged and
handcuffed, and on his way to the police car, before he knew exactly
what tornado had struck him.
“Do you mind if I sing?” said Elk as they turned into the street on the
opposite side to that where Mr. Maitland’s late residence was situated.
Without waiting permission Elk broke into song. His voice was thin and
flat. As a singer, he was a miserable failure, and Dick Gordon had never
in his life listened with so much patience to sounds more hideous. But
there would be watchers at each end of the street, he thought, and soon
saw that Elk’s precautions were necessary.
Again it was in the shadow of a street-lamp that the sentinel stood—a
tall, thickset man, more conscientious in the discharge of his duties
than his friend, for Dick saw something glittering in his mouth, and
knew that it was a whistle.
“Give me the woild for a wishing well,” wailed Elk, staggering slightly,
“Say that my dre-em will come true . . .”
And as he sang he made appropriate gestures. His outflung hand caught
the whistle and knocked it from the man’s mouth, and in a second the two
sprang at him and flung him face downward on the pavement. Elk pulled
his prisoner’s cap over his mouth; something black and shiny flashed
before the sentry’s eyes, and a cold, circular instrument was thrust
against the back of his ear.
“If you make a sound, you’re a dead Frog,” said Elk; and that portion of
his party which had made the circuit coming up at that moment, he handed
his prisoner over and replaced his fountain-pen in his pocket.
“Everything now depends upon whether the gentleman who is patrolling the
passage between the gardens has witnessed this disgusting fracas,” said
Elk, dusting himself. “If he was standing at the entrance to the passage
he has seen it, and there’s going to be trouble.”
Apparently the patrol was in the alleyway itself and had heard no sound.
Creeping to the entrance, Elk listened and presently heard the soft pad
of footsteps. He signalled to Dick to remain where he was, and slipped
into the passage, walking softly, but not so softly that the man on
guard at the back gate of Mr. Maitland’s house did not hear him.
“Who’s that?” he demanded in a gruff voice.
“It’s me,” whispered Elk. “Don’t make so much noise.”
“You’re not supposed to be here,” said the other in a tone of authority.
“I told you to stay under the lamp-post——”
Elk’s eyes had grown accustomed to the darkness, and now he saw his man.
“There are two queer-looking people in the street: I wanted you to see
them,” he whispered.
All turned now upon the discipline which the Frogs maintained.
“Who are they?” asked the unknown in a low voice.
“A man and a woman,” whispered Elk.
“I don’t suppose they’re anybody important,” grumbled the other.
In his youth Elk had played football; and, measuring the distance as
best he could, he dropped suddenly and tackled low. The man struck the
earth with a jerk which knocked all the breath out of his body and made
him incapable of any other sound than the involuntary gasp which
followed his knock-out. In a second Elk was on him, his bony knee on the
man’s throat.
“Pray, Frog,” he whispered in the man’s ear, “but don’t shout!”
The stricken man was incapable of shouting, and was still breathless
when willing hands threw him into the patrol wagon.
“We’ll have to go the back way, boys,” said Elk in a whisper.
This time his task was facilitated by the fact that the garden gate was
not locked. The door into the scullery was, however, but there was a
window, the catch of which Elk forced noiselessly. He had pulled off his
boots and was in his stockinged feet, and he sidled along the darkened
passage. Apparently none of the dilapidated furniture had been removed
from the house, for he felt the small table that had stood in the hall
on his last visit. Gently turning the handle of Maitland’s room, he
pushed.
The door was open, the room in darkness and empty. Elk came back to the
scullery.
“There’s nobody here on the ground floor,” he said. “We’ll try
upstairs.”
He was half-way up when he heard the murmur of voices and stopped.
Raising his eyes to the level of the floor, he saw a crack of light
under the doorway of the front room—the apartment which had been
occupied by Maitland’s housekeeper. He listened, but could distinguish
no consecutive words. Then, with a bound, he took the remaining stairs
in three strides, flew along the landing, and flung himself upon the
door. It was locked. At the sound of his footsteps the light inside went
out. Twice he threw himself with all his weight at the frail door, and
at the third attempt it crashed in.
“Hands up, everybody!” he shouted.
The room was in darkness, and there was a complete silence. Crouching
down in the doorway, he flung the gleam of his electric torch into the
room. It was empty!
His officers came crowding in at his heels, the lamp on the table was
relit—the glass chimney was hot—and a search was made of the room. It
was too small to require a great deal of investigation. There was a bed,
under which it was possible to hide, but they drew blank in this
respect. At one end of the room near the bed was a wardrobe, which was
filled with old dresses suspended from hangers.
“Throw out those clothes,” ordered Elk. “There must be a door there into
the next house.”
A glance at the window showed him that it was impossible for the inmates
of the room to have escaped that way. Presently the clothes were heaped
on the floor, and the detectives were attacking the wooden back of the
wardrobe, which did, in fact, prove to be a door leading into the next
house. Whilst they were so engaged, Dick made a scrutiny of the table,
which was littered with papers. He saw something and called Elk.
“What is this, Elk?”
The detective took the four closely-typed sheets of paper from his hand.
“Mills’ confession,” he said in amazement. “There are only two copies,
one of which I have, and the other is in the possession of your
department, Captain Gordon.”
At this moment the wardrobe backing was smashed in, and the detectives
were pouring through to the next house.
And then it was that they made the interesting discovery that, to all
intents and purposes, communication was continuous between a block of
ten houses that ran to the end of the street. And they were not
untenanted. Three typical Frogs occupied the first room into which they
burst. They found others on the lower floor; and it soon became clear
that the whole of the houses comprising the end block had been turned
into a sleeping-place for the recruits of Frogdom. Since any one of
these might have been No. 7, they were placed under arrest.
All the communicating doors were now opened. Except in the case of
Maitland’s house, no attempt had been made to camouflage the entrances,
which in the other houses consisted of oblong apertures, roughly cut
through the brick party walls.
“We may have got him, but I doubt it,” said Elk, coming back, breathless
and grimy, to where Dick was examining the remainder of the documents
which he had found. “I haven’t seen any man who looks like owning
brains.”
“Nobody has escaped from the block?”
Elk shook his head.
“My men are in the passage and the street. In addition, the uniformed
police are here. Didn’t you hear the whistle?”
Elk’s assistant reported at that moment.
“A man has been found in one of the back yards, sir,” he said. “I’ve
taken the liberty of relieving the constable of his prisoner. Would you
like to see him?”
“Bring him up,” said Elk, and a few minutes later a handcuffed man was
pushed into the room.
He was above medium height; his hair was fair and long, his yellow beard
was trimmed to a point.
For a moment Dick looked at him wonderingly, and then:
“Carlo, I think?” he said.
“Hagn, I’m sure!” said Elk. “Get those whiskers off, you Frog, and we’ll
talk numbers, beginning with seven!”
Hagn! Even now Dick could not believe his eyes. The wig was so perfectly
made, the beard so cunningly fixed, that he could not believe it was the
manager of Heron’s Club. But when he heard the voice, he knew that Elk
was right.
“Number Seven, eh?” drawled Hagn. “I guess Number Seven will get through
your cordon without being challenged, Mr. Elk. He’s friendly with the
police. What do you want me for?”
“I want you for the part you played in the murder of Chief Inspector
Genter on the night of the fourteenth of May,” said Elk.
Hagn’s lips curled.
“Why don’t you take Broad?—he was there. Perhaps he’ll come as witness
for me.”
“When I see him——” began Elk.
“Look out of the window,” interrupted Hagn. “He’s there!”
Dick walked to the window and, throwing up the sash, leant out. A crowd
of locals in shawls and overcoats were watching the transference of the
prisoners. Dick caught the sheen of a silk hat and the unmistakable
voice of Broad hailed him.
“Good morning, Captain Gordon—Frog stock kind of slumped, hasn’t it? By
the way, did you see the baby?”