THE FROG OF THE NIGHT
JOHN BENNETT emerged from the wood-shed, which he had converted into a
dark room, bearing a flat square box in either hand.
“Don’t talk to me for a minute, Ella,” he said as she rose from her
knees—she was weeding her own pet garden—“or I shall get these blamed
things mixed. This one”—he shook his right hand—“is a picture of
trout, and it is a great picture,” he said enthusiastically. “The man
who runs the trout farm, let me take it through the glass side of the
trench, and it was a beautifully sunny day.”
“What is the other one, daddy?” she asked, and John Bennett pulled a
face.
“That is the dud,” he said regretfully. “Five hundred feet of good film
gone west! I may have got a picture by accident, but I can’t afford to
have it developed on the off-chance. I’ll keep it by, and one day, when
I’m rolling in money, I’ll go to the expense of satisfying my
curiosity.”
He took the boxes into the house, and turned round to his stationery
rack to find two adhesive labels, and had finished writing them, when
Dick Gordon’s cheery voice came through the open window. He rose eagerly
and went out to him.
“Well, Captain Gordon, did you get it?” he asked.
“I got it,” said Dick solemnly, waving an envelope. “You’re the first
cinematographer that has been allowed in the Zoological Gardens, and I
had to _crawl_ to the powers that be to secure the permission!”
The pale face of John Bennett flushed with pleasure.
“It is a tremendous thing,” he said. “The Zoo has never been put on the
pictures, and Selinski has promised me a fabulous sum for the film if I
can take it.”
“The fabulous sum is in your pocket, Mr. Bennett,” said Dick, “and I am
glad that you mentioned it.”
“I am under the impression you mentioned it first,” said John Bennett.
Ella did not remember having seen her father smile before.
“Perhaps I did,” said Dick cheerfully. “I knew you were interested in
animal photography.”
He did not tell John Bennett that it was Ella who had first spoken about
the difficulties of securing Zoo photographs and her father’s inability
to obtain the necessary permission.
John Bennett went back to his labelling with a lighter heart than he had
borne for many a day. He wrote the two slips, wetted the gum and
hesitated. Then he laid down the papers and went into the garden.
“Ella, do you remember which of those boxes had the trout in?”
“The one in your right hand, daddy,” she said.
“I thought so,” he said, and went to finish his work.
It was only after the boxes were labelled that he had any misgivings.
Where had he stood when he put them down? On which side of the table?
Then, with a shrug, he began to wrap the trout picture, and they saw him
carrying it under his arm to the village post-office.
“No news of Ray?” asked Dick.
The girl shook her head.
“What does your father think?”
“He doesn’t talk about Ray, and I haven’t emphasized the fact that it is
such a long time since I had a letter.”
They were strolling through the garden toward the little summer-house
that John Bennett had built in the days when Ray was a schoolboy.
“You have not heard?” she asked. “I credit you with an omniscience which
perhaps isn’t deserved. You have not found the man who killed Mr.
Maitland?”
“No,” said Dick. “I don’t expect we shall until we catch Frog himself.”
“Will you?” she asked quietly.
He nodded.
“Yes, he can’t go on for ever. Even Elk is taking a cheerful view.
Ella,” he asked suddenly, “are you the kind of person who keeps a
promise?”
“Yes,” she said in surprise.
“In all circumstances, if you make a promise, do you keep it?”
“Why, of course. If I do not think I can keep it, I do not make a
promise. Why?”
“Well, I want you to make me a promise—and to keep it,” he said.
She looked past him, and then:
“It depends what the promise is.”
“I want you to promise to be my wife,” said Dick Gordon.
Her hand lay in his, and she did not draw it from him.
“It is . . . very . . . businesslike, isn’t it?” she said, biting her
unruly underlip.
“Will you promise?”
She looked round at him, tears in her eyes, though her lips were
smiling, and he caught her in his arms.
John Bennett waited a long time for his lunch that day. Going out to see
where his daughter was, he met Dick, and in a few words Dick Gordon told
him all. He saw the pain in the man’s face, and dropped his hand upon
the broad shoulder.
“Ella has promised me, and she will not go back on her promise. Whatever
happens, whatever she learns.”
The man raised his eyes to the other’s face.
“Will you go back on your promise?” he asked huskily. “Whatever you
learn?”
“I know,” said Dick simply.
Ella Bennett walked on air that day. A new and splendid colour had come
into her life; a tremendous certainty which banished all the fears and
doubts she had felt; a light which revealed delightful vistas.
Her father went over to Dorking that afternoon, and came back hurriedly,
wearing that strained look which it hurt her to see.
“I shall have to go to town, dearie,” he said. “There’s been a letter
waiting for me for two days. I’ve been so absorbed in my picture work
that I’d forgotten I had any other responsibility.”
He did not look for her in the garden to kiss her good-bye, and when she
came back to the house he was gone, and in such a hurry that he had not
taken his camera with him.
Ella did not mind being alone; in the days when Ray was at home, she had
spent many nights in the cottage by herself, and the house was on the
main road. She made some tea and sat down to write to Dick, though she
told herself reprovingly that he hadn’t been gone more than two or three
hours. Nevertheless, she wrote, for the spirit of logic avoids the
lover.
There was a postal box a hundred yards up the road; it was a bright
night and people were standing at their cottage gates, gossipping, as
she passed. The letter dropped in the box, she came back to the cottage,
went inside, locked and bolted the door, and sat down with a workbasket
by her side to fill in the hour which separated her from bedtime.
So working, her mind was completely occupied, to the exclusion of all
other thoughts, by Dick Gordon. Once or twice the thought of her father
and Ray strayed across her mind, but it was to Dick she returned.
The only illumination in the cosy dining-room was a shaded kerosene lamp
which stood on the table by her side and gave her sufficient light for
her work. All outside the range of the lamp was shadow. She had finished
darning a pair of her father’s socks, and had laid down the needle with
a happy sigh, when her eyes went to the door leading to the kitchen. It
was ajar, and it was opening slowly.
For a moment she sat paralysed with terror, and then leapt to her feet.
“Who’s there?” she called.
There came into the shadowy doorway a figure, the very sight of which
choked the scream in her throat. It looked tall, by reason of the
tightly-fitting black coat it wore. The face and head were hidden behind
a hideous mask of rubber and mica. The reflection of the lamp shone on
the big goggles and filled them with a baleful fire.
“Don’t scream, don’t move!” said the masked man, and his voice sounded
hollow and far away. “I will not hurt you.”
“Who are you?” she managed to gasp.
“I am The Frog,” said the stranger.
For an eternity, as it seemed, she stood helpless, incapable of
movement, and it was he who spoke.
“How many men love you, Ella Bennett?” he asked. “Gordon and
Johnson—and The Frog, who loves you most of all!”
He paused, as though he expected her to speak, but she was incapable of
answering him.
“Men work for women, and they murder for women, and behind all that they
do, respectably or unrespectably, there is a woman,” said the Frog. “And
you are that woman for me, Ella.”
“Who are you?” she managed to say.
“I am The Frog,” he replied again, “and you shall know my name when I
have given it to you. I want you! Not now”—he raised his hand as he saw
the terror rising in her face. “You shall come to me willingly.”
“You’re mad!” she cried. “I do not know you. How can I—oh, it’s too
wicked to suggest . . . please go away.”
“I will go presently,” said the Frog. “Will you marry me, Ella?”
She shook her head.
“Will you marry me, Ella?” he asked again.
“No.” She had recovered her calm and something of her self-possession.
“I will give you——”
“If you gave me all the money there was in the world, I would not many
you,” she said.
“I will give you something more precious.” His voice was softer,
scarcely audible. “I will give you a life!”
She thought he was speaking of Dick Gordon.
“I will give you the life of your brother.”
For a second the room spun round and she clutched a chair to keep her
feet.
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“I will give you the life of your brother, who is lying in Gloucester
Gaol under sentence of death!” said the Frog.
With a supreme effort Ella guided herself to a chair and sat down.
“My brother?” she said dully. “Under sentence of death?”
“To-day is Monday,” said the Frog. “On Wednesday he dies. Give me your
word that when I send for you, you will come, and I will save him.”
“How can you save him?” The question came mechanically.
“A man has made a confession—a man named Gill, a half-witted fellow who
thinks he killed Lew Brady.”
“Brady?” she gasped.
The Frog nodded.
“It isn’t true,” she breathed. “You’re lying! You’re telling me this to
frighten me.”
“Will you marry me?” he asked.
“Never, never!” she cried. “I would rather die. You are lying to me.”
“When you want me, send for me,” said the Frog. “Put in your window a
white card, and I will save your brother.”
She half lay on the table, her head upon her folded arms.
“It’s not true, it’s not true,” she muttered.
There was no reply, and, looking up, she saw that the room was empty.
Staggering to her feet, she went out into the kitchen. The kitchen door
was open; and, peering into the dark garden, she saw no sign of the man.
She had strength to bolt the door, and dragged herself up to her room
and to her bed, and then she fainted.
Daylight showed in the windows when she sat up. She was painfully weary,
her eyes were red with weeping, her head was in a whirl. It had been a
night of horror—and it was not true, it could not be true. She had
heard of no murder; and if there had been, it could not be Ray. She
would have known; Ray would have sent for her father.
She dragged her aching limbs to the bathroom and turned the cold-water
tap. Half an hour later she was sane, and looking at her experience
dispassionately. Ray was alive. The man had tried to frighten her. Who
was he? She shivered.
She saw only one solution to her terrible problem, and after she had
made herself a cup of tea, she dressed and walked down into the town, in
time to catch an early train. What other thought came to her, she never
dreamt for one moment of surrender, never so much as glanced at the
window where a white card could be placed, might save the life of her
brother. In her heart of hearts, she knew that this man would not have
come to her with such a story unless it was well founded. That was not
the Frog’s way. What advantage would he gain if he had invented this
tragedy? Nevertheless, she did not even look for a white card, or think
of its possible use.
Dick was at breakfast when she arrived, and a glance at her face told
him that she brought bad news.
“Don’t go, Mr. Elk,” she said as the inspector pushed back his chair.
“You must know this.”
As briefly as she could, she narrated the events of the night before,
and Dick listened with rising wrath until she came to the climax of the
story.
“Ray under sentence?” he said incredulously. “Of course it isn’t true.”
“Where did he say the boy was?” asked Elk.
“In Gloucester Prison.”
In their presence her reserve had melted and she was near to tears.
“Gloucester Prison?” repeated Elk slowly. “There _is_ a man there under
sentence of death, a man named”—he strove to remember—“Carter,” he
said at last. “That is it—Carter, a tramp. He killed another tramp
named Phenan.”
“Of course it isn’t Ray,” said Dick, laying his hand on hers. “This
brute tried to frighten you. When did he say the execution had been
fixed for?”
“To-morrow.” She was weeping; now that the tension had relaxed, it
seemed that she had reached the reserve of her strength.
“Ray is probably on the Continent,” Dick soothed her, and here Elk
thought it expedient and delicate to steal silently forth.
He was not as convinced as Gordon that the Frog had made a bluff. No
sooner was he in his office than he rang for his new clerk.
“Records,” he said briefly. “I want particulars of a man named Carter,
now lying under sentence of death in Gloucester Prison—photograph,
finger-prints, and record of the crime.”
The man was gone ten minutes, and returned with a small portfolio.
“No photograph has been received yet, sir,” he said. “In murder cases we
do not get the full records from the County police until after the
execution.”
Elk cursed the County police fluently, and addressed himself to the
examination of the dossier. That told him little or nothing. The height
and weight of the man tallied, he guessed, with Ray’s. There were no
body marks and the description “Slight beard——”
He sat bolt upright. Slight beard! Ray Bennett had been growing a beard
for some reason. He remembered that Broad had told him this.
“Pshaw!” he said, throwing down the finger-print card. “It is
impossible!”
It was impossible, and yet——
He drew a telegraph pad toward him and wrote a wire.
“Governor, H.M. Prison, Gloucester. Very urgent. Send by special
messenger prison photograph of James Carter under sentence of
death in your prison to Headquarters Records. Messenger must
leave by first train. Very urgent.”
He took the liberty of signing it with the name of the Chief
Commissioner. The telegram despatched, he returned to a scrutiny of the
description sheet, and presently he saw a remark which he had
overlooked.
“Vaccination marks on right forearm.”
That was unusual. People are usually vaccinated on the left arm, a
little below the shoulder. He made a note of this fact, and turned to
the work that was waiting for him. At noon a wire arrived from
Gloucester, saying that the photograph was on its way. That, at least,
was satisfactory; though, even if it proved to be Ray, what could be
done? In his heart Elk prayed most fervently that the Frog had bluffed.
Just before one, Dick telephoned him and asked him to lunch with them at
the Auto Club, an invitation which, in any circumstances, was not to be
refused, for Elk had a passion for visiting other people’s clubs.
When he arrived—on this occasion strictly on time—he found the girl in
a calm, even a cheerful mood, and his quick eye detected upon her finger
a ring of surprising brilliance that he had not seen before. Dick Gordon
had made very good use of his spare time that morning.
“I feel I’m neglecting my business, Elk,” he said after he had led them
into the palatial dining-room of the Auto, and had found a cushion for
the girl’s back, and had placed her chair exactly where it was least
comfortable, “but I guess you’ve got through the morning without feeling
my loss.”
“I certainly have,” said Elk. “A very interesting morning. There is a
smallpox scare in the East End,” he went on, “and I’ve heard some talk
at Headquarters of having the whole staff vaccinated. If there’s one
thing that I do not approve of, it is vaccination. At my time of life I
ought to be immune from any germ that happens to be going round.”
The girl laughed.
“Poor Mr. Elk! I sympathize with you. Ray and I had a dreadful time when
we were vaccinated about five years ago during the big epidemic,
although I didn’t have so bad a time as Ray. And neither of us had such
an experience as the majority of victims, because we had an excellent
doctor, with unique views on vaccination.”
She pulled back the sleeve of her blouse and showed three tiny scars on
the underside of the right forearm.
“The doctor said he would put it where it wouldn’t show. Isn’t that a
good idea?”
“Yes,” said Elk slowly. “And did he vaccinate your brother the same
way?”
She nodded, and then:
“What is the matter, Mr. Elk?”
“I swallowed an olive stone,” said Elk. “I wonder somebody doesn’t start
cultivating olives without stones.” He looked out of the window. “You’ve
got a pretty fine day for your visit, Miss Bennett,” he said, and
launched forth into a rambling condemnation of the English climate.
It seemed hours to Elk before the meal was finished. The girl was going
back to Gordon’s house to look at catalogues which Dick had ordered to
be sent to Harley Terrace by telephone.
“You won’t be coming to the office?” asked Elk.
“No: do you think it is necessary?”
“I wanted to see you for ten minutes,” drawled the other, “perhaps a
quarter of an hour.”
“Come back to the house.”
“Well, I wasn’t thinking of coming back to the house,” said Elk.
“Perhaps you’ve got a lady’s drawing-room. I remember seeing one as I
came through the marble hall, and Miss Bennett would not mind——”
“Why, of course not,” she said. “If I’m in the way, I’ll do anything you
wish. Show me your lady’s drawing-room.”
When Dick had come back, the detective was smoking, his elbows on the
table, his thin, brown hands clasped under his chin, and he was
examining, with the eye of a connoisseur, the beautifully carved
ceiling.
“What’s the trouble, Elk?” said Gordon as he sat down.
“The man under sentence of death is Ray Bennett,” said Elk without
preliminary.