“ALL BULLS HEAR!”
ELK went out on the street to see the American. Mr. Broad was in
faultless evening dress, and the gleaming head-lamps of his car
illuminated the mean street.
“You’ve certainly a nose for trouble,” said Elk with respect; “and
whilst you’re telling me how you came to know about this raid, which
hadn’t been decided on until half-an-hour ago, I’ll do some quiet
wondering.”
“I didn’t know there was a raid,” confessed Joshua Broad, “but when I
saw twenty Central Office men dash out of Heron’s Club and drive
furiously away, I am entitled to guess that their haste doesn’t indicate
their anxiety to get to bed before the clock strikes two. I usually call
at Heron’s Club in the early hours. In many ways its members are less
desirable acquaintances than the general run of Frogs, but they amuse
me. And they are mildly instructive. That is my explanation—I saw you
leave in a hurry and I followed you. And I repeat my question. Did you
see the dear little baby who is learning to spell R-A-T, Rat?”
“No,” said Elk shortly. He had a feeling that the suave and
self-possessed American was laughing at him. “Come in and see the
chief.”
Broad followed the inspector to the bedroom, where Dick was assembling
the papers which in his hurried departure No. 7 had left behind. The
capture was the most important that had been made since the campaign
against the Frogs was seriously undertaken.
In addition to the copy of the secret report on Mills, there was a
bundle of notes, many of them cryptic and unintelligible to the reader.
Some, however, were in plain English. They were typewritten, and
obviously they corresponded to the General Orders of an army. They were,
in fact, the Frog’s own instructions, issued under the name of his chief
of staff, for each bore the signature “Seven.”
One ran:
“Raymond Bennett must go faster. L. to tell him that he is a
Frog. Whatever is done with him must be carried out with
somebody unknown as Frog.”
Another slip:
“Gordon has an engagement to dine American Embassy Thursday.
Settle. Elk has fixed new alarm under fourth tread of stairs.
Elk goes to Wandsworth 4.15 to-morrow for interview with Mills.”
There were other notes dealing with people of whom Dick had never heard.
He was reading again the reference to himself, and smiling over the
laconic instruction “settle,” when the American came in.
“Sit down, Mr. Broad—by the sad look on Elk’s face I guess you have
explained your presence satisfactorily?”
Broad nodded smilingly.
“And Mr. Elk takes quite a lot of convincing,” he said. His eyes fell
upon the papers on the table. “Would it be indiscreet to ask if that is
Frog stuff?” he asked.
“Very,” said Dick, “In fact, any reference to the Frogs would be the
height of indiscretion, unless you’re prepared to add to the sum of our
knowledge.”
“I can tell you, without committing myself, that Frog Seven has made a
getaway,” said the American calmly.
“How do you know?”
“I heard the Frogs jubilating as they passed down the street in
custody,” said Broad. “Frog Seven’s disguise was perfect—he wore the
uniform of a policeman.”
Elk swore softly but savagely.
“That was it!” he said. “He was the ‘policeman’ who was spiriting Hagn
away under the pretence of arresting him! And if one of my men had not
taken his prisoner from him they would both have escaped. Wait!”
He went in search of the detective who had brought in Hagn.
“I don’t know the constable,” said that officer. “This is a strange
division to me. He was a tallish man with a heavy black moustache. If it
was a disguise, it was perfect, sir.”
Elk returned to report and question. But again Mr. Broad’s explanation
was a simple one.
“I tell you that the Frogs were openly enjoying the joke. I heard one
say that the ‘rozzer’ got away—and another refer to the escaped man as
a ‘flattie’—both, I believe, are cant terms for policemen?”
Elk nodded.
“What is your interest in the Frogs, Broad?” he asked bluntly. “Forget
for the minute that you’re a parlour-criminologist and imagine that
you’re writin’ the true story of your life.”
Broad considered for a while, examining the cigar he had been smoking.
“The Frogs mean nothing to me—the Frog everything.” The American puffed
a ring of smoke into the air and watched it dissolve.
“I’m mighty curious to know what game he is playing with Ray Bennett,”
he said. “That is certainly the most intriguing feature of Frog
strategy.”
He rose and took up his hat.
“I envy you your search of this fine old mansion,” he said, and, with a
twinkle in his eye: “Don’t forget the kindergarten, Mr. Elk.”
When he had gone, Elk made a close scrutiny of the house. He found two
children’s books, both well-thumbed, and an elementary copybook, in
which a childish hand had followed, shakily, the excellent copperplate
examples. The _abacus_ was gone, however. In the cupboard where he had
seen the unopened circulars, he made a discovery. It was a complete
outfit, as far as he could judge, for a boy of six or seven. Every
article was new—not one had been worn. Elk carried his find to where
Dick was still puzzling over some of the more obscure notes which “No.
7” had left in his flight.
“What do you make of these?” he asked.
The Prosecutor turned over the articles one by one, then leant back in
his chair and stared into vacancy.
“All new,” he said absently, and then a slow smile dawned on his face.
Elk, who saw nothing funny in the little bundle, wondered what was
amusing him.
“I think these clothes supply a very valuable clue; does this?” He
passed a paper across the table, and Elk read:
“All bulls hear on Wednesday 3.1.A. L.V.M.B. Important.”
“There are twenty-five copies of that simple but moving message,” said
Dick; “and as there are no envelopes for any of the instructions, I can
only suppose that they are despatched by Hagn either from the club or
his home. This is how far I have got in figuring the organization of the
Frogs. Frog Number One works through ‘Seven,’ who may or may not be
aware of his chief’s identity. Hagn—whose number is thirteen, by the
way, and mighty unlucky it will be for him—is the executive chief of
Number Seven’s bureau, and actually communicates with the section
chiefs. He may or may not know ‘Seven’—probably he does. Seven takes
orders from the Frog, but may act without consultation if emergencies
arise. There is here,” he tapped the paper, “an apology for employing
Mills, which bears this out.”
“No handwriting?”
“None—nor finger-prints.”
Elk took up one of the slips on which the messages were written, and
held it to the light.
“Watermark Three Lion Bond,” he read. “Typewriter new, written by
somebody who was taught and has a weak little finger of the left
hand—the ‘q’ and ‘a’ are faint. That shows he’s a touch typist—uses
the same finger every time. Self-taught typists seldom use their little
fingers. Especially the little finger of the left hand. I once caught a
bank thief through knowing this.” He read the message again.
“‘All bulls hear on Wednesday . . .’ Bulls are the big men, the bull
frogs, eh? Where do they hear? ‘3.1.A.’? That certainly leaves me
guessing, Captain. Why, what do you think?”
Dick was regarding him oddly.
“It doesn’t get me guessing,” he said slowly. “At 3.1 a.m. on Wednesday
morning, I shall be listening in for the code signal L.V.M.B.—we are
going to hear that great Frog talk!”
“Will he talk about the durned treaty?” growled Elk.