T. B. SMITH REPORTS
In red, blue, and green; in type varying in size according to the
temperament of the newspaper; in words wild or sedate, as the
character of the journal demanded, the newspaper contents bills gave
London its first intimation of the breaking up of the Nine Bears.
As a sensation scarcely less vivid came the astounding exposé of
Count Ivan Poltavo. Society rocked to its foundations by this news
of its favourite. From every dinner-table in London arose the
excited clamour of discussion. Lady Angela defended him stoutly,
declaring that as an artist, and ignorant of money, he had been
misled by bad, clever rascals. Men who had been forced to take
second place in his presence, now came forward, boldly, and stated
that they had always suspected him to be a rogue.
One brilliant young man achieved a week-long fame by looking up his
record at Scotland Yard. It appeared that the count was indeed a
black-hearted villain. Five years ago he had been deported as an
undesirable alien.
"But how did he escape recognition?" asked a guest.
The famous one smirked. "He parted his hair on one side, and wore a
moustache!"
Ah! Into the mind of every feminine diner arose the vivid picture of
the count--with mustachios! They sighed.
That the Nine Bears were dispersed was hailed as a triumph for the
English police. Unfortunately, the popular view is not always the
correct view, and T. B. Smith came back to London a very angry man.
It had been no fault of his that the majority of the band had escaped.
"The Civil Guard was twenty minutes late in taking up its position,"
wrote T. B. in his private report.
"No blame attached to the Guard, which is one of the finest police
forces in the world, but to the local police authorities, who at the
eleventh hour detected some obscurity in their instructions from
Madrid, and must needs telegraph for elucidation. So that the ring
about the House on the Hill which I commanded was not completed until
long after the whole lot had escaped. We caught François Zillier,
who has been handed over to the French police, but the remainder of
the gang got clean away. Apparently they have taken Count Poltavo
with them; Van Ingen declares he shot him and such indications as we
have point to his having been badly hurt. How the remainder managed
to carry him off passes my comprehension. We have secured a few
documents. There is one mysterious scrap of paper discovered in
Baggin's private room which is incoherent to a point of wildness, and
apparently the rough note of some future scheme; it will bear
re-examination."
"Thanks to the industry and perseverance of the English police," said
the _London Morning Journal_, commenting on the affair, "the Nine Men
of Cadiz are dispersed, their power destroyed, their brilliant
villainies a memory. It is only a matter of time before they will
fall into the hands of the police, and the full measure of Society's
punishment be awarded them. Scattered as they are----"
T. B. Smith put down his paper when he came to this part, and smiled
grimly.
"Scattered, are they!" he said. "I doubt it."
For all the praise that was lavished upon him and upon his
department, he was not satisfied with himself. He knew that he had
failed. To break up the gang had always been possible. To arrest
them and seize the huge fortune they had amassed would have been an
achievement justifying the encomia that were being lavished upon him.
"The only satisfaction I have," he said to the Chief Commissioner,
"is that we are so often cursed for inefficiency when we do the right
thing, that we can afford to take a little credit when we've made a
hash of things."
"I wouldn't say that," demurred the Chief. "You did all that was
humanly possible."
T. B. sniffed.
"Eight men and Poltavo slipped through my fingers," he answered
briefly; "that's a bad best."
He rose from the chair and paced the room, his head sunk on his
breast.
"If Count Poltavo had delayed his entrance another ten minutes," he
said, stopping suddenly, "Baggin would have told Van Ingen all that I
wanted to know. This wonderful scheme of his that was to secure them
all ease and security for the rest of their lives."
"He may have been boasting," suggested the other, but T. B. shook his
head.
"It was no boast," he said with assurance, "and if it were he has
made it good, for where are the Nine? One of them is on Devil's
Island, because he had the misfortune to fall into our hands. But
where are the others? Vanished! Dissolved into the elements--and
their money with them! I tell you, sir, there is not even the
suspicion of a trace of these men. How did they get away from Cadiz?
Not by rail, for all northward trains were stopped at Boadilla and
searched. Not by sea, for the only ship that left that night was the
Brazilian man-o'-war, _Maria Braganza_."
"Airship," suggested his chief flippantly, as he moved towards the
door.
"It is unlikely, sir," replied T. B. coldly.
The Chief Commissioner stood with his hand on the edge of the open
door.
"At any rate, they are finished," he said, "their power for further
mischief is destroyed."
"I appreciate your optimism, sir," said T. B. impertinently, "which I
regret to say I do not share."
"One thing is evident, and must be remembered," T. B. went on, as his
chief still lingered. "Outside of the Nine Men there must be in
Europe hundreds of agents, who, without being aware of their
principals, have been acting blindly for years in their interest.
What of the men who went to the length of murder at Poltavo's orders?
What of the assassins in Europe and America who 'arranged' the
suicide of the bank president and the wreck of the Sud Express? Not
one of these men have we been able to track down. I tell you, sir,
that outside of the inner council of this gang, Poltavo organised as
great a band of villains as the world has ever seen. They remain;
this is an indisputable fact; somewhere in the world, scattered
materially, but bound together by bonds of Poltavo's weaving, are a
number of men who formed the working parts of the Nine Men's great
machine. For the moment the steam is absent---- Yes?"
A constable was at the door.
"A message for you, sir."
T. B. took the envelope and tore it open mechanically. It was a note
from Van Ingen.
"Saw Poltavo ten minutes ago in a hansom. Positive--no disguise.
C.V.I."
Smith sat suddenly erect. "Poltavo in London!" he breathed. "It is
incredible!"
He stood up, busily engaged in speculation.
* * * * * * *
The little telegraph instrument near the Chief Inspector's desk began
to click. In every police station throughout the metropolis it
snapped forth its message. In Highgate, in Camberwell, in sleepy
Greenwich, in Ladywell, as in Stoke Newington. "Clickerty,
clickerty, click," it went, hastily, breathlessly. It ran:
"To ALL STATIONS: Arrest and detain Count Ivan Poltavo. [Here the
description followed.] All reserves out in plain clothes."
All reserves out!
That was a remarkable order.
London did not know of the happening; the homeward-bound suburbanite
may have noticed a couple of keen-faced men standing idly near the
entrance of the railway station, may have seen a loiterer on the
platform--a loiterer who apparently had no train to catch. Curious
men, too, came to the hotels, lounging away the whole evening in the
entrance hall, mildly interested in people who came or went. Even
the tram termini were not neglected, nor the theatre queues, nor the
boarding-houses of Bloomsbury. Throughout London, from east to west,
north to south, the work that Scotland Yard had set silent emissaries
to perform was swiftly and expeditiously carried out.
T. B. sat all that evening in his office waiting. One by one little
pink slips were carried in to him and laid upon the desk before him.
As the evening advanced they increased in number and length.
At eight o'clock came a wire:
"Not leaving by Hook of Holland route."
Soon after nine:
"Continental mail clear."
Then in rapid succession the great caravanserais reported themselves.
Theatres, bars, restaurants, every place in London where men and
women gather together, sent, through the plain-clothes watchers,
their messages.
At eleven o'clock T. B. was reading a telegram from Harwich when the
telephone at his elbow buzzed.
He took up the receiver.
"Hullo," he said curtly.
For a second there was no reply, and then, very clear and distinct,
came a voice.
"T. B. Smith, I presume."
It was the voice of Count Poltavo.
If there had been anybody in the room but T. B., he might have
imagined it was a very ordinary call the detective was receiving.
Save for the fact that his face twitched, as was a characteristic of
his when labouring under any great excitement, he gave no sign of the
varied emotions Poltavo's voice had aroused.
"Yes, I am T. B. Smith; you are, of course, Count Poltavo?"
"I am, of course, Count Poltavo," said the voice suavely, "and it is
on the tip of your tongue to ask me where I am."
"I am hardly as foolish as that," said T. B. drily, "but wherever you
are--and I gather from the clearness of your voice that you are in
London--I shall have you."
There was a little laugh at the other end of the wire.
T. B.'s hand stole out and pressed a little bell-push that rested on
the table.
"Yes," said Poltavo's voice mockingly, "I am in London. I am
desirous of knowing where my friends have hidden."
"Your friends?" T. B. was genuinely astonished.
"My friends," said the voice gravely, "who so ungenerously left me to
die on the salt plains near Jerez whilst they were making their
escape."
A constable entered the room whilst Poltavo was talking, and T. B.
raised his hand warningly.
"Tell me," he said carelessly, "why you have not joined them."
Then, like a flash, he brought his hand down over the transmitter and
turned to the waiting constable.
"Run across to Mr. Elk's room," he said rapidly; "call the Treasury
Exchange and ask what part of London--what office--this man is
speaking to me from."
Poltavo was talking before T. B. had finished giving his instructions.
"Why have I not joined them?" he said, and there was a little
bitterness in his voice,--"because they do not wish to have me.
Poltavo has served his purpose! Where are they now?--that is what I
wish to know. More important still, I greatly desire a piece of
information which you alone, monsieur, can afford me."
The sublime audacity of the man brought a grin to T. B.'s face.
"And that is?" he asked.
"There was," said Poltavo, "amongst the documents you found at our
headquarters in Jerez a scrap of paper written somewhat
unintelligibly, and apparently--I should imagine, for I have not seen
it--without much meaning."
"There was," said T. B. cheerfully.
"So much I gathered from Baggin's agitation on our retreat," said
Poltavo. "Where, may I ask, is this interesting piece of literature
deposited?"
The cool, matter-of-fact demand almost took T. B.'s breath away.
"It is at present at Scotland Yard," he said.
"With my--er--dossier?" asked the voice, and a little laugh followed.
"Rather with the dossier of your friend Baggin," said T. B.
"In case I should ever want to--how do you say--burgle Scotland
Yard," said the drawling voice again, "could you give me explicit
instructions where to find it?"
T. B.'s anxiety was to keep Poltavo engaged in conversation until the
officer he had despatched to the telephone returned.
"Yes," he said, "at present it is in the cabinet marked 'Unclassified
Data,' but I cannot promise you that it will remain there. You see,
count, I have too high an opinion of your enterprise and daring."
He waited for a reply, but no reply came, and at that moment the door
opened and the constable he had sent on the errand appeared.
T. B. covered the transmitter again.
"The Treasury say that you are not connected with anybody, sir," he
said.
"What?"
T. B. stared at him.
He moved his hand from the transmitter and called softly, "Poltavo!"
There was no reply, and he called again.
He looked up with the receiver still at his ear.
"He's rung off."
Then a new voice spoke.
"Finished, sir?"
"No--who are you?" demanded T. B. quickly.
"Exchange, sir--Private Exchange, Scotland Yard."
"Who was talking to me then? Where was he talking from?"
"Why, from the Record Office."
T. B., his face white, leapt to his feet.
"Follow me," he said, and went racing down the long corridor. He
went down the broad stairs three at a time.
A constable on duty in the hall turned in astonishment.
"Has anybody left here recently?" asked T. B. breathlessly.
"A gentleman just gone out, sir," said the man; "went away in a
motor-car."
"Is Mr. Elk in the building?"
"In the Record Office, sir," said the man.
Up the stairs again flew the detective. The Record Office was at the
far end of the building.
The door was ajar and the room in darkness, but T. B. was in the room
and had switched on the light.
In the centre of the room was stretched the unfortunate Elk in a pool
of blood. A preserver lay near him. T. B. leant over him; he was
alive, but terribly injured; then he shot a swift glance round the
room. He saw the telephone with the receiver off; he saw an open
cabinet marked "Unclassified Data," and it was empty.