MR. JOHNSON’S VISITOR
THERE is a certain murky likeness between the houses in Fitzroy Square,
London, and Gramercy Park, New York. Fitzroy Square belongs to the
Georgian days, when Soho was a fashionable suburb, and St.
Martins-in-the-Fields was really in the fields, and was not tucked away
between a Vaudeville house and a picture gallery.
No. 431 had been subdivided by its owner into three self-contained
flats, Johnson’s being situated on the ground floor. There was a fourth
basement flat, which was occupied by a man and his wife who acted for
the owners, and, incidentally, were responsible, in the case of Johnson,
for keeping his apartments clean and supplying him with the very few
meals that he had on the premises.
It was nearly ten o’clock when philosopher Johnson arrived home that
evening, and he was a very tired man. He had spent the greater part of
the day in making a series of calls upon financial and real estate
houses. To his inevitable inquiries he received an inevitable answer.
There were no vacancies, and certainly no openings for a stoutish man of
fifty, who looked, to the discerning eyes of the merchants concerned or
their managing clerks, past his best years of work. Patient Mr. Johnson
accepted each rebuff and moved on to another field, only to find his
experience repeated.
He let himself in with a latchkey, walked wearily into a little
sitting-room, and dropped with a sigh to the Chesterfield, for he was
not given to violent exercise.
The room in which he sat was prettily, but not expensively furnished. A
large green carpet covered the floor; the walls were hidden by
book-shelves; and there was about the place a certain cosiness which
money cannot buy. Rising after some little time, he walked to his
book-shelf, took down a volume and spent the next two hours in reading.
It was nearly midnight when he turned out the light and went to bed.
His bedroom was at the farther end of the short corridor, and in five
minutes he was undressed and asleep.
Mr. Johnson was usually a light but consistent sleeper, but to-night he
had not been asleep an hour before he was awake again. And wider awake
than he had been at any portion of the day. Softly he got out of bed,
put on his slippers and pulled a dressing-gown round him; then, taking
something from a drawer in his bureau, he opened the door and crept
softly along the carpeted passage toward his sitting-room.
He had heard no sound; it was sheer premonition of a pressing danger
which had wakened him. His hand was on the door-knob, and he had turned
it, when he heard a faint click. It was the sound of a light being
turned off, and the sound came from the sitting-room.
With a quick jerk he threw open the door and reached out his hand for
the switch; and then, from the blackness of the room, came a warning
voice.
“Touch that light and you die! I’ve got you covered. Put your gun on the
floor at your feet—quick!”
Johnson stooped and laid down the revolver he had taken from his bureau.
“Now step inside, and step lively,” said the voice.
“Who are you?” asked Johnson steadily.
He strained his eyes to pierce the darkness, and saw the figure now. It
was standing by his desk, and the shine of something in its hand warned
him that the threat was no idle one.
“Never met me?” There was a chuckle of laughter in the voice of the
Unknown. “I’ll bet you haven’t! Friend—meet the Frog!”
“The Frog?” Johnson repeated the words mechanically.
“One name’s as good as another. That will do for mine,” said the
stranger. “Throw over the key of your desk.”
There was a silence.
“I haven’t my key here,” said Johnson. “It is in the bedroom.”
“Stay where you are,” warned the voice.
Johnson had kicked off his slippers softly, and was feeling with his
feet for the pistol he had laid so obediently on the floor in the first
shock of surprise. Presently he found it and drew it toward him with his
bare toes.
“What do you want?” he asked, temporizing.
“I want to see your office papers—all the papers you’ve brought from
Maitlands.”
“There is nothing here of any value,” said Johnson.
The revolver was now at his feet and a little ahead of him. He kept his
toes upon the butt, ready to drop just as soon as he could locate with
any certainty the position of the burglar. But now, though his eyes were
growing accustomed to the darkness, he could no longer see the owner of
the voice.
“Come nearer,” said the stranger, “and hold out your hands.”
Johnson made as though to obey, but dropped suddenly to his knees. The
explosion deafened him. He heard a cry, saw, in the flash of his pistol,
a dark figure, and then something struck him.
He came to consciousness ten minutes later, to find the room empty.
Staggering to his feet, he put on the light and walked unsteadily back
to his bedroom, to examine the extent of his injuries. He felt the bump
on his head gingerly, and grinned. Somebody was knocking at the outer
door, a peremptory, authoritative knocking. With a wet towel to his
injured head he went out into the passage and opened the front door. He
found two policemen at the step and a small crowd gathered on the
pavement.
“Has there been shooting here?”
“Yes, constable,” said Johnson, “I did a little shooting, but I don’t
think I hit anything.”
“Have you been hurt, sir? Was it burglars?”
“I can’t tell you. Come in,” said Johnson, and led the way back to the
disordered library.
The blind was flapping in the draught, for the window, which looked out
upon a side street, was open.
“Have you missed anything?”
“No, I don’t think so,” said Johnson. “I think it was rather more
important than an ordinary burglary. I am going to call Inspector Elk of
Scotland Yard, and I think you had better leave the room as it is until
he arrives.”
Elk was in his office, laboriously preparing a report on the escape of
Hagn, when the call came through. He listened attentively, and then:
“I’ll come down, Johnson. Tell the constable to leave things—ask him to
speak to me.”
By the time Elk had arrived, the philosopher was dressed.
“He gave you a pretty hefty one,” said Elk, examining the contusion with
a professional eye.
“I wasn’t prepared for it. I expected him to shoot, and he must have
struck at me as I fired.”
“You say it was the Frog himself?” said the sceptical Elk. “I doubt it.
The Frog has never undertaken a job on his own, so far as I can
remember.”
“It was either the Frog or one of his trusted emissaries,” said Johnson
with a good-humoured smile. “Look at this.”
On the centre of his pink blotting-pad was stamped the inevitable Frog.
It appeared also on the panel of the door.
“That is supposed to be a warning, isn’t it?” said Johnson. “Well, I
hadn’t time to get acquainted with the warning before I got mine!”
“There are worse things than a clubbing,” said Elk cheerfully. “You’ve
missed nothing?”
Johnson shook his head.
“No, nothing.”
Elk’s inspection of the room was short but thorough. It was near the
open window, blown by the breeze into the folds of the curtain, that he
found the parcel-room ticket. It was a green slip acknowledging the
reception of a handbag, and it was issued at the terminus of the Great
Northern Railway.
“Is this yours?” he asked.
Johnson took the slip from him, examined it and shook his head.
“No,” he said, “I’ve never seen it before.”
“Anybody else in your flat likely to have left a bag at King’s Cross
station?”
Again Johnson shook his head and smiled.
“There is nobody else in this flat,” he said, “except myself.”
Elk took the paper under the light and scrutinized the date-stamp. The
luggage had been deposited a fortnight before, and, as is usual in such
tickets, the name of the depositor was not given.
“It may have blown in from the garden,” he said. “There is a stiff
breeze to-night, but I should not imagine that anybody who had got an
important piece of luggage would leave the ticket to fly around. I’ll
investigate this,” he said, and put the ticket carefully away in his
pocket-book. “You didn’t see the man?”
“I caught a glimpse of him as I fired, and I am under the impression
that he was masked.”
“Did you recognize his voice?”
“No,” said Johnson, shaking his head.
Elk examined the window. The catch had been cleverly forced—“cleverly”
because it was a new type of patent fastening familiar to him, and which
he did not remember ever having seen forced from the outside before.
Instinctively his mind went back to the burglary at Lord Farmley’s, to
that beautifully cut handle and blown lock; and though, by no stretch of
imagination, could the two jobs be compared, yet there was a similarity
in finish and workmanship which immediately struck him.
What made this burglary all the more remarkable was that, for the first
time, there had appeared somebody who claimed to be the Frog himself.
Never before had the Frog given tangible proof of his existence. He
understood the organization well enough to know that none of the Frog’s
willing slaves would have dared to use his name. And why did he consider
that Johnson was worthy of his personal attention?
“No,” said Johnson in answer to his question, “there are no documents
here of the slightest value. I used to bring home a great deal of work
from Maitlands; in fact, I have often worked into the middle of the
night. That is why my dismissal is such a scandalous piece of
ingratitude.”
“You have never had any private papers of Maitland’s here, which perhaps
you might have forgotten to return?” asked Elk thoughtfully, and
Johnson’s ready smile and twinkling eyes supplied an answer.
“That’s rather a graceful way of putting the matter,” he said. “No, I
have none of Maitland’s documents here. If you care, you can see the
contents of all my cupboards, drawers and boxes, but I can assure you
that I’m a very methodical man; I know practically every paper in my
possession.”
Walking home, Elk reviewed the matter of this surprising appearance. If
the truth be told, he was very glad to have some additional problem to
keep his mind off the very unpleasant interview which was promised for
the morning. Captain Dick Gordon would assume all responsibility, and
probably the Commissioners would exonerate Elk from any blame; but to
the detective, the “people upstairs” were almost as formidable as the
Frog himself.