MR. BROAD IS INTERESTING
DICK GORDON ended his interview with Mr. Ezra Maitland at three o’clock
in the morning, and went to Headquarters, to find the charge-room at
Cannon Row singularly empty. When he had left, it was impossible to get
in or out for the crowd of detectives which filled or surrounded the
place.
“On the whole, Pentonville is safest, and I’ve got him there. I asked
the Governor to put him in the condemned cell, but it is not etiquette.
Anyway, Pentonville is the safest spot I know, and I think that, unless
Frogs eat stones, he’ll stay. What has Maitland got to say, Captain?”
“Maitland’s story, so far as one can get a story from him, is that he
went to see Balder by invitation. ‘When you’re sent for by the police,
what can you do?’ he asked, and the question is unanswerable.”
“There is no doubt at all,” said Elk, “that Maitland knew Balder’s
character, and it was not in his capacity as policeman that the old man
visited him. There is less doubt that this man is hand in glove with the
Frog, but it is going to be very difficult to prove.”
“Maitland puzzles me,” said Dick. “He’s such a bully, and yet such a
frightened old man. I thought he was going to drop through the floor
when I told him who I was, and why I had come. And when I mentioned the
fact that Balder had been arrested, he almost collapsed.”
“That line has to be followed,” said Elk thoughtfully. “I have sent for
Johnson. He ought to be here by now. Johnson must know something about
the old man’s business, and he will be a very valuable witness if we can
connect the two.”
The philosopher arrived half-an-hour later, having been aroused from his
sleep to learn that his presence was required at Headquarters.
“Mr. Elk will tell you something which will be public property in a day
or two,” said Gordon. “Balder has been arrested in connection with the
explosion which occurred in Mr. Elk’s office.”
It was necessary to explain to Johnson exactly who Balder was, and Dick
went on to tell him of the old man’s visit to Slough. Johnson shook his
head.
“I didn’t know that Maitland had a friend of that name,” he said.
“Balder? What other name had he?”
“He called himself Collett-Banson,” said Dick, and a look of
understanding came to the face of Johnson.
“I know that name very well. Mr. Banson used frequently to call at the
office, generally late in the evenings—Maitland spends three nights a
week working after the clerks have gone, as I know to my cost,” he said.
“A rather tall, good-looking fellow of about forty?”
“Yes, that is the man.”
“He has a house near Windsor. I have never been there, but I know
because I have posted letters to him.”
“What sort of business did Collett-Banson have with Maitland?”
“I’ve never been able to discover. I always thought of him as a man who
had property to sell, for that was the only type of outsider who was
ever admitted to Maitland’s presence. I remember that he had the child
staying with him for about a week——”
“That is, the child in Maitland’s house?”
Johnson nodded.
“You don’t know what association there is between the child and these
two men?”
“No, sir, except that I am certain that Mr. Collett-Banson had the
little boy with him, because I sent toys—mechanical engines or
something of the sort—by Mr. Maitland’s directions. It was the day that
Mr. Maitland made his will, about eighteen months ago. I remember the
day particularly for a peculiar reason. I had expected Mr. Maitland to
ask me to witness the will and was piqued, for no cause, because he
brought two clerks up from the office to sign. These little things
impress themselves upon one,” he added.
“Was the will made in favour of the child?”
Johnson shook his head.
“I haven’t the slightest knowledge of how the property goes,” he said.
“He never discussed the matter with me; he wouldn’t even employ a
lawyer. In fact, I don’t remember his ever employing a lawyer all the
time I was with him, except for conveyancing work. He told me he had
copied the form of will from a book, but beyond feeling hurt that I, an
old and faithful servant of his, hadn’t been taken a little into his
confidence, I wasn’t greatly interested in the matter. But I do remember
that that morning I went down to a store and bought a whole lot of toys,
had them packed and brought them back to the office. The old man played
with them all the afternoon!”
Early in the morning Dick Gordon interviewed the prisoners at
Pentonville, and found them in a very obstinate mood.
“I know nothing about babies or children; and if Johnson says he sent
toys, he is lying,” said Balder defiantly. “I refuse to make any
statement about Maitland or my association with Maitland. I am the
victim of police persecution, and I defy you to bring any proof that I
have committed a single act in my life—unless it is a crime to live
like a gentleman—for which you can imprison me.”
“Have you any message for your wife and children?” asked Dick
sarcastically, and the sullen features of the man relaxed for a second.
“No, Elk will look after them,” he said humorously.
The most stringent precautions had been taken to prevent a rescue, and
the greatest care was exercised that no communication passed between No.
7 and the outside world. He was charged at Bow Street an hour before the
court usually sat. Evidence of arrest was taken, and he was remanded,
being removed to Pentonville in a motor-van under armed guard.
On the third night of his imprisonment, romance came into the life of
the second chief warder of Pentonville Prison. He was comparatively
young and single, not without good looks, and lived, with his widowed
mother, at Shepherd’s Bush. It was his practice to return home after his
day’s duty by omnibus, and he was alighting on this day when a lady, who
had got off before him, stumbled and fell. Instantly he was by her side,
and had lifted her to her feet. She was young and astonishingly pretty
and he helped her gain the pavement.
“It was nothing,” she said smilingly, but with a grimace of pain. “It
was very foolish of me to come by ’bus; I was visiting an old servant of
mine who is ill. Will you call me a taxi, please?”
“Certainly, madam,” said the gallant chief warder.
The taxi which was passing was beckoned to the kerb. The girl looked
round helplessly.
“I wish I could see somebody I know. I don’t want to go home alone; I’m
so afraid of fainting.”
“If you would not object to my escort,” said the man, with all the
warm-hearted earnestness which the sight of a woman in distress awakens
in the bosom of impressionable man, “I will see you home.”
She shot a glance at him which was full of gratitude and accepted his
escort, murmuring her regret for the trouble she was giving him.
It was a beautiful apartment she occupied. The chief warder thought he
had never met so gracious and beautiful a lady before, so appropriately
housed, and he was right. He would have attended to her injury, but she
felt so much better, and her maid was coming in soon, and would he have
a whisky-and-soda, and would he please smoke? She indicated where the
cigarettes were to be found, and for an hour the chief warder spoke
about himself, and had an enjoyable evening.
“I’m very much obliged to you, Mr. Bron,” she said at parting. “I feel
I’ve wasted your evening.”
“I can assure you,” said Mr. Bron earnestly, “that if this is a waste of
time, then time has no use!”
She laughed.
“That is a pretty speech,” she said, “and I will let you call to-morrow
and see me.”
He took a careful note of the address; it was an exclusive maisonette in
Bloomsbury Square; and the next evening found him ringing the bell, but
this time he was not in uniform.
He left at ten o’clock, an ecstatic man who held his head high and
dreamt golden dreams, for the fragrance of her charm (as he wrote her)
“permeated his very being.” Ten minutes after he had gone, the girl came
out, closed the door behind her and went out into the street, and the
idler who had been promenading the pavement threw away his cigar.
“Good evening. Miss Bassano,” he said.
She drew herself up.
“I am afraid you have made a mistake,” she said stiffly.
“Not at all. You’re Miss Bassano, and my only excuse for addressing you
is that I am a neighbour of yours.”
She looked more closely at him.
“Oh, Mr. Broad!” she said in a more gracious tone. “I’ve been visiting a
friend of mine who is rather ill.”
“So I’m told, and a nice flat your friend occupies,” he said as he fell
in by her side. “I was thinking of hiring it a few days ago. These
furnished apartments are difficult to find. Maybe it was a week
ago—yes, it was a week ago,” he said carefully; “it was the day before
you had your lamentable accident in Shepherd’s Bush.”
“I don’t quite understand you,” she said, on her guard at once.
“The truth is,” said Mr. Broad apologetically, “that I’ve been trying to
get at Bron too. I’ve been making a very careful study of the prison
staff for the past two months, and I’ve a list of the easy boys that has
cost me a lot of money to compile. I suppose you didn’t reach the stage
where you persuaded him to talk about his interesting prisoner? I tried
him last week,” he went on reminiscently. “He goes to a dance club at
Hammersmith, and I got acquainted with him through a girl he’s keen
about—you’re not the only young love of his life, by the way.”
She laughed softly.
“What a clever man you are, Mr. Broad!” she said. “No, I’m not very
interested in prisoners. By the way, who is this person you were
referring to?”
“I was referring to Number Seven, who is in Pentonville Gaol,” said Mr.
Broad coolly, “and I’ve got an idea he is a friend of yours.”
“Number Seven?” Her perplexity would have convinced a less hardened man
than Joshua Broad. “I have an idea that that is something to do with the
Frogs.”
“That is something to do with the Frogs,” agreed the other gravely,
“about whom I daresay you have read. Miss Bassano, I’ll make you an
offer.”
“Offer me a taxi, for I’m tired of walking,” she said, and when they
were seated side by side she asked: “What is your offer?”
“I offer you all that you require to get out of this country and to keep
you out for a few years, until this old Frog busts—as he will bust!
I’ve been watching you for a long time, and, if you won’t consider it an
impertinence, I like you. There’s something about you that is very
attractive—don’t stop me, because I’m not going to get fresh with you,
or suggest that you’re the only girl that ever made tobacco taste like
molasses—I like you in a kind of pitying way, and you needn’t get
offended at that either. And I don’t want to see you hurt.”
He was very serious; she recognized his sincerity, and the word of
sarcasm that rose to her lips remained unuttered.
“Are you wholly disinterested?” she asked.
“So far as you are concerned, I am,” he replied. “There is going to be
an almighty smash, and it is more than likely that you’ll get in the way
of some of the flying pieces.”
She did not answer him at once. What he had said merely intensified her
own uneasiness.
“I suppose you know I’m married?”
“I guessed that,” he answered. “Take your husband with you. What are you
going to do with that boy?”
“You mean Ray Bennett?”
It was curious that she made no attempt to disguise either her position
or the part that she was playing. She wondered at herself after she was
home. But Joshua Broad had a compelling way, and she never dreamt of
deceiving him.
“I don’t know,” she said. “I wish he wasn’t in it. He is on my
conscience. Are you smiling?”
“At your having a conscience? No, I fancied that was how you stood. And
the growing beard?”
She did not laugh.
“I don’t know about that. All I know is that we’ve had—why am I telling
you this? Who are you, Mr. Broad?”
He chuckled.
“Some day I’ll tell you,” he said; “and I promise you that, if you’re
handy, you shall be the first to know. Go easy with that boy, Lola.”
She did not resent the employment of her first name, but rather it
warmed her towards this mystery man.
“And write to Mr. Bron, Assistant Chief Warder of Pentonville Gaol, and
tell him that you’ve been called out of town and won’t be able to see
him again for ten years.”
To this she made no rejoinder. He left her at the door of her flat and
took her little hand in his.
“If you want money to get away, I’ll send you a blank cheque,” he said.
“There is no one else on the face of the earth that I’d give a blank
cheque to, believe me.”
She nodded, most unusual tears in her eyes. Lola was breaking under the
strain, and nobody knew it better than the hawk-faced man who watched
her as she passed into her flat.