had staggered back beyond the edge of the water, and there were the
marks of his feet on the sand. He had blood on his face and on his
bathing-suit, and he had cut his hand with the bottle. But the blessed
sea was still coming in. He watched it pass over the bloodstains and
the footprints and wipe the story of his madness away. He remembered
that this man had gone from his place, leaving no address behind him.
He went back, step by step, into the water, and, as it came up to his
breast, he saw the red stains smoke away like a faint mist in the
brown-blueness of the tide. He went--wading and swimming and plunging
his face and arms deep in the water, looking back from time to time
to see what he had left behind him. I think that when he got back to
the point and drew himself out, clean and cool, upon the rocks, he
remembered that he ought to have taken the body back with him and let
the tide carry it away, but it was too late. He was clean, and he could
not bear to go back for the thing. Besides, he was late, and they would
wonder at the hotel if he was not back in time for breakfast. He ran
lightly over the bare rocks and the grass that showed no footprint. He
dressed himself, taking care to leave no trace of his presence. He took
the car, which would have told a story. He put his bicycle in the back
seat, under the rugs, and he went--but you know as well as I do where
he went."
Lord Peter got up with an impatient movement, and went over to the
picture, rubbing his thumb meditatively over the texture of the
painting.
"You may say, if he hated the face so much, why didn't he destroy the
picture? He couldn't. It was the best thing he'd ever done. He took a
hundred guineas for it. It was cheap at a hundred guineas. But then--I
think he was afraid to refuse me. My name is rather well known. It was
a sort of blackmail, I suppose. But I wanted that picture."
Inspector Winterbottom laughed again.
"Did you take any steps, my lord, to find out if Crowder has really
been staying at East Felpham?"
"No." Wimsey swung round abruptly. "I have taken no steps at all.
That's your business. I have told you the story, and, on my soul, I'd
rather have stood by and said nothing."
"You needn't worry." The inspector laughed for the third time. "It's a
good story, my lord, and you told it well. But you're right when you
say it's a fairy-story. We've found this Italian fellow--Franceso, he
called himself, and he's the man all right."
"How do you know? Has he confessed?"
"Practically. He's dead. Killed himself. He left a letter to the woman,
begging her forgiveness, and saying that when he saw her with Plant he
felt murder come into his heart. 'I have revenged myself,' he says, 'on
him who dared to love you.' I suppose he got the wind up when he saw
we were after him--I wish these newspapers wouldn't be always putting
these criminals on their guard--so he did away with himself to cheat
the gallows. I may say it's been a disappointment to me."
"It must have been," said Wimsey. "Very unsatisfactory, of course. But
I'm glad my story turned out to be only a fairy-tale after all. You're
not going?"
"Got to get back to my duty," said the inspector, heaving himself to
his feet. "Very pleased to have met you, my lord. And I mean what I
say--you ought to take to literature."
Wimsey remained after he had gone, still looking at the portrait.
"'What is Truth?' said jesting Pilate. No wonder, since it is so
completely unbelievable.... I could prove it ... if I liked ... but
the man had a villainous face, and there are few good painters in the
world."
THE ADVENTUROUS EXPLOIT OF THE CAVE OF ALI BABA
In the front room of a grim and narrow house in Lambeth a man sat
eating kippers and glancing through the _Morning Post_. He was smallish
and spare, with brown hair rather too regularly waved and a strong,
brown beard, cut to a point. His double-breasted suit of navy-blue and
his socks, tie, and handkerchief, all scrupulously matched, were a
trifle more point-device than the best taste approves, and his boots
were slightly too bright a brown. He did not look a gentleman, not even
a gentleman's gentleman, yet there was something about his appearance
which suggested that he was accustomed to the manner of life in good
families. The breakfast-table, which he had set with his own hands, was
arrayed with the attention to detail which is exacted of good-class
servants. His action, as he walked over to a little side-table and
carved himself a plate of ham, was the action of a superior butler; yet
he was not old enough to be a retired butler; a footman, perhaps, who
had come into a legacy.
He finished the ham with good appetite, and, as he sipped his coffee,
read through attentively a paragraph which he had already noticed and
put aside for consideration.
"LORD PETER WIMSEY'S WILL
BEQUEST TO VALET
£10,000 TO CHARITIES
"The will of Lord Peter Wimsey, who was killed last December while
shooting big game in Tanganyika, was proved yesterday at £500,000.
A sum of £10,000 was left to various charities, including [here
followed a list of bequests]. To his valet, Mervyn Bunter, was
left an annuity of £500 and the lease of the testator's flat in
Piccadilly. [Then followed a number of personal bequests.] The
remainder of the estate, including the valuable collection of books
and pictures at 110A Piccadilly, was left to the testator's mother,
the Dowager Duchess of Denver.
"Lord Peter Wimsey was thirty-seven at the time of his death. He
was the younger brother of the present Duke of Denver, who is the
wealthiest peer in the United Kingdom. Lord Peter was distinguished
as a criminologist and took an active part in the solution of
several famous mysteries. He was a well-known book-collector and
man-about-town."
The man gave a sigh of relief.
"No doubt about that," he said aloud. "People don't give their money
away if they're going to come back again. The blighter's dead and
buried right enough. I'm free."
He finished his coffee, cleared the table, and washed up the crockery,
took his bowler hat from the hall-stand, and went out.
A bus took him to Bermondsey. He alighted, and plunged into a network
of gloomy streets, arriving after a quarter of an hour's walk at a
seedy-looking public-house in a low quarter. He entered and called for
a double whisky.
The house had only just opened, but a number of customers, who had
apparently been waiting on the doorstep for this desirable event, were
already clustered about the bar. The man who might have been a footman
reached for his glass, and in doing so jostled the elbow of a flash
person in a check suit and regrettable tie.
"Here!" expostulated the flash person, "what d'yer mean by it? We don't
want your sort here. Get out!"
He emphasised his remarks with a few highly coloured words, and a
violent push in the chest.
"Bar's free to everybody, isn't it?" said the other, returning the
shove with interest.
"Now then!" said the barmaid, "none o' that. The gentleman didn't do it
intentional, Mr. Jukes."
"Didn't he?" said Mr. Jukes. "Well, I _did_."
"And you ought to be ashamed of yourself," retorted the young lady,
with a toss of the head. "I'll have no quarrelling in my bar--not this
time in the morning."
"It was quite an accident," said the man from Lambeth. "I'm not one to
make a disturbance, having always been used to the best houses. But if
any gentleman _wants_ to make trouble----"
"All right, all right," said Mr. Jukes, more pacifically. "I'm not keen
to give you a new face. Not but what any alteration wouldn't be for the
better. Mind your manners another time, that's all. What'll you have?"
"No, no," protested the other, "this one must be on me. Sorry I pushed
you. I didn't mean it. But I didn't like to be taken up so short."
"Say no more about it," said Mr. Jukes generously. "I'm standing this.
Another double whisky, miss, and one of the usual. Come over here where
there isn't so much of a crowd, or you'll be getting yourself into
trouble again."
He led the way to a small table in the corner of the room.
"That's all right," said Mr. Jukes. "Very nicely done. I don't think
there's any danger here, but you can't be too careful. Now, what about
it, Rogers? Have you made up your mind to come in with us?"
"Yes," said Rogers, with a glance over his shoulder, "yes, I have.
That is, mind you, if everything seems all right. I'm not looking for
trouble, and I don't want to get let in for any dangerous games. I
don't mind giving you information, but it's understood as I take no
active part in whatever goes on. Is that straight?"
"You wouldn't be allowed to take an active part if you wanted to,"
said Mr. Jukes. "Why, you poor fish, Number One wouldn't have anybody
but experts on his jobs. All you have to do is to let us know where
the stuff is and how to get it. The Society does the rest. It's some
organisation, I can tell you. You won't even know who's doing it, or
how it's done. You won't know anybody, and nobody will know you--except
Number One, of course. He knows everybody."
"And you," said Rogers.
"And me, of course. But I shall be transferred to another district. We
shan't meet again after to-day, except at the general meetings, and
then we shall all be masked."
"Go on!" said Rogers incredulously.
"Fact. You'll be taken to Number One--he'll see you, but you won't see
him. Then, if he thinks you're any good, you'll be put on the roll,
and after that you'll be told where to make your reports to. There is
a divisional meeting called once a fortnight, and every three months
there's a general meeting and share-out. Each member is called up by
number and has his whack handed over to him. That's all."
"Well, but suppose two members are put on the same job together?"
"If it's a daylight job, they'll be so disguised their mothers wouldn't
know 'em. But it's mostly night work."
"I see. But, look here--what's to prevent somebody following me home
and giving me away to the police?"
"Nothing, of course. Only I wouldn't advise him to try it, that's all.
The last man who had that bright idea was fished out of the river down
Rotherhithe way, before he had time to get his precious report in.
Number One knows everybody, you see."
"Oh!--and who is this Number One?"
"There's lots of people would give a good bit to know that."
"Does nobody know?"
"Nobody. He's a fair marvel, is Number One. He's a gentleman, I can
tell you that, and a pretty high-up one, from his ways. _And_ he's got
eyes all round his head. _And_ he's got an arm as long as from here to
Australia. _But_ nobody knows anything about him, unless it's Number
Two, and I'm not even sure about her."
"There are women in it, then?"
"You can bet your boots there are. You can't do a job without 'em
nowadays. But that needn't worry you. The women are safe enough. They
don't want to come to a sticky end, no more than you and me.
"But, look here, Jukes--how about the money? It's a big risk to take.
Is it worth it?"
"Worth it?" Jukes leant across the little marble-topped table and
whispered.
"Coo!" gasped Rogers. "And how much of that would I get, now?"
"You'd share and share alike with the rest, whether you'd been in
that particular job or not. There's fifty members, and you'd get
one-fiftieth, same as Number One and same as me."
"Really? No kidding?"
"See that wet, see that dry!" Jukes laughed. "Say, can you beat it?
There's never been anything like it. It's the biggest thing ever been
known. He's a great man, is Number One."
"And do you pull off many jobs?"
"Many? Listen. You remember the Carruthers necklace, and the Gorleston
Bank robbery? And the Faversham burglary? And the big Rubens that
disappeared from the National Gallery? And the Frensham pearls? All
done by the Society. And never one of them cleared up."
Rogers licked his lips.
"But now, look here," he said cautiously. "Supposing I was a spy, as
you might say, and supposing I was to go straight off and tell the
police about what you've been saying?"
"Ah!" said Jukes, "suppose you did, eh? Well, supposing something nasty
didn't happen to you on the way there--which I wouldn't answer for,
mind----"
"Do you mean to say you've got me watched?"
"You can bet your sweet life we have. Yes. Well, _supposing_ nothing
happened on the way there, and you was to bring the slops to this pub,
looking for yours truly----"
"Yes?"
"You wouldn't find me, that's all. I should have gone to Number Five."
"Who's Number Five?"
"Ah! I don't know. But he's the man that makes you a new face while
you wait. Plastic surgery, they call it. And new finger-prints. New
everything. We go in for up-to-date methods in our show."
Rogers whistled.
"Well, how about it?" asked Jukes, eyeing his acquaintance over the rim
of his tumbler.
"Look here--you've told me a lot of things. Shall I be safe if I say
'no'?"
"Oh, yes--if you behave yourself and don't make trouble for us."
"H'm, I see. And if I say 'yes'?"
"Then you'll be a rich man in less than no time, with money in your
pocket to live like a gentleman. And nothing to do for it, except to
tell us what you know about the houses you've been to when you were in
service. It's money for jam if you act straight by the Society."
Rogers was silent, thinking it over.
"I'll do it!" he said at last.
"Good for you. Miss! The same again, please. Here's to it, Rogers!
I knew you were one of the right sort the minute I set eyes on you.
Here's to money for jam, and take care of Number One! Talking of Number
One, you'd better come round and see him to-night. No time like the
present."
"Right you are. Where'll I come to? Here?"
"Nix. No more of this little pub for us. It's a pity, because it's nice
and comfortable, but it can't be helped. Now, what you've got to do is
this. At ten o'clock to-night exactly, you walk north across Lambeth
Bridge." (Rogers winced at this intimation that his abode was known),
"and you'll see a yellow taxi standing there, with the driver doing
something to his engine. You'll say to him, 'Is your bus fit to go?'
and he'll say, 'Depends where you want to go to.' And you'll say, 'Take
me to Number One, London.' There's a shop called that, by the way,
but he won't take you there. You won't know where he _is_ taking you,
because the taxi-windows will be covered up, but you mustn't mind that.
It's the rule for the first visit. Afterwards, when you're regularly
one of us, you'll be told the name of the place. And when you get
there, do as you're told and speak the truth, because, if you don't,
Number One will deal with you. See?"
"I see."
"Are you game? You're not afraid?"
"Of course I'm not afraid."
"Good man! Well, we'd better be moving now. And I'll say good-bye,
because we shan't see each other again. Good-bye--and good luck!"
"Good-bye."
They passed through the swing-doors, and out into the mean and dirty
street.
* * * * *
The two years subsequent to the enrolment of the ex-footman Rogers in a
crook society were marked by a number of startling and successful raids
on the houses of distinguished people. There was the theft of the great
diamond tiara from the Dowager Duchess of Denver; the burglary at the
flat formerly occupied by the late Lord Peter Wimsey, resulting in the
disappearance of £7,000 worth of silver and gold plate; the burglary
at the country mansion of Theodore Winthrop, the millionaire--which,
incidentally, exposed that thriving gentleman as a confirmed Society
blackmailer and caused a reverberating scandal in Mayfair; and the
snatching of the famous eight-string necklace of pearls from the
Marchioness of Dinglewood during the singing of the Jewel Song in
_Faust_ at Covent Garden. It is true that the pearls turned out to be
imitation, the original string having been pawned by the noble lady
under circumstances highly painful to the Marquis, but the coup was
nevertheless a sensational one.
On a Saturday afternoon in January, Rogers was sitting in his
room in Lambeth, when a slight noise at the front door caught his
ear. He sprang up almost before it had ceased, dashed through the
small hall-way, and flung the door open. The street was deserted.
Nevertheless, as he turned back to the sitting-room, he saw an
envelope lying on the hat-stand. It was addressed briefly to "Number
Twenty-one." Accustomed by this time to the somewhat dramatic methods
used by the Society to deliver its correspondence, he merely shrugged
his shoulders, and opened the note.
It was written in cipher, and, when transcribed, ran thus:
"Number Twenty-one,--An Extraordinary General Meeting will be held
to-night at the house of Number One at 11.30. You will be absent at
your peril. The word is FINALITY."
Rogers stood for a little time considering this. Then he made his way
to a room at the back of the house, in which there was a tall safe,
built into the wall. He manipulated the combination and walked into
the safe, which ran back for some distance, forming, indeed, a small
strong-room. He pulled out a drawer marked "Correspondence," and added
the paper he had just received to the contents.
After a few moments he emerged, re-set the lock to a new combination,
and returned to the sitting-room.
"Finality," he said. "Yes--I think so." He stretched out his hand to
the telephone--then appeared to alter his mind.
He went upstairs to an attic, and thence climbed into a loft close
under the roof. Crawling among the rafters, he made his way into the
farthest corner; then carefully pressed a knot on the timber-work. A
concealed trap-door swung open. He crept through it, and found himself
in the corresponding loft of the next house. A soft cooing noise
greeted him as he entered. Under the skylight stood three cages, each
containing a carrier pigeon.
He glanced cautiously out of the skylight, which looked out upon a
high blank wall at the back of some factory or other. There was nobody
in the dim little courtyard, and no window within sight. He drew his
head in again, and, taking a small fragment of thin paper from his
pocket-book, wrote a few letters and numbers upon it. Going to the
nearest cage, he took out the pigeon and attached the message to its
wing. Then he carefully set the bird on the window-ledge. It hesitated
a moment, shifted its pink feet a few times, lifted its wings, and
was gone. He saw it tower up into the already darkening sky over the
factory roof and vanish into the distance.
He glanced at his watch and returned downstairs. An hour later he
released the second pigeon, and in another hour the third. Then he sat
down to wait.
At half-past nine he went up to the attic again. It was dark, but a few
frosty stars were shining, and a cold air blew through the open window.
Something pale gleamed faintly on the floor. He picked it up--it was
warm and feathery. The answer had come.
He ruffled the soft plumes and found the paper. Before reading it, he
fed the pigeon and put it into one of the cages. As he was about to
fasten the door, he checked himself.
"If anything happens to me," he said, "there's no need for you to
starve to death, my child."
He pushed the window a little wider open and went downstairs again. The
paper in his hand bore only the two letters, "O.K." It seemed to have
been written hurriedly, for there was a long smear of ink in the upper
left-hand corner. He noted this with a smile, put the paper in the
fire, and, going out into the kitchen, prepared and ate a hearty meal
of eggs and corned beef from a new tin. He ate it without bread, though
there was a loaf on the shelf near at hand, and washed it down with
water from the tap, which he let run for some time before venturing
to drink it. Even then he carefully wiped the tap, both inside and
outside, before drinking.
When he had finished, he took a revolver from a locked drawer,
inspecting the mechanism with attention to see that it was in working
order, and loaded it with new cartridges from an unbroken packet. Then
he sat down to wait again.
At a quarter before eleven, he rose and went out into the street. He
walked briskly, keeping well away from the wall, till he came out into
a well-lighted thoroughfare. Here he took a bus, securing the corner
seat next the conductor, from which he could see everybody who got on
and off. A succession of buses eventually brought him to a respectable
residential quarter of Hampstead. Here he alighted and, still keeping
well away from the walls, made his way up to the Heath.
The night was moonless, but not altogether black, and, as he crossed
a deserted part of the Heath, he observed one or two other dark forms
closing in upon him from various directions. He paused in the shelter
of a large tree, and adjusted to his face a black velvet mask, which
covered him from brow to chin. At its base the number 21 was clearly
embroidered in white thread.
At length a slight dip in the ground disclosed one of those agreeable
villas which stand, somewhat isolated, among the rural surroundings
of the Heath. One of the windows was lighted. As he made his way to
the door, other dark figures, masked like himself, pressed forward and
surrounded him. He counted six of them.
The foremost man knocked on the door of the solitary house. After
a moment, it was opened slightly. The man advanced his head to the
opening; there was a murmur, and the door opened wide. The man stepped
in, and the door was shut.
When three of the men had entered, Rogers found himself to be the next
in turn. He knocked, three times loudly, then twice faintly. The door
opened to the extent of two or three inches, and an ear was presented
to the chink. Rogers whispered "Finality." The ear was withdrawn, the
door opened, and he passed in.
Without any further word of greeting, Number Twenty-one passed into
a small room on the left, which was furnished like an office, with a
desk, a safe, and a couple of chairs. At the desk sat a massive man in
evening dress, with a ledger before him. The new arrival shut the door
carefully after him; it clicked to, on a spring-lock. Advancing to the
desk, he announced, "Number Twenty-one, sir," and stood respectfully
waiting. The big man looked up, showing the number 1 startlingly white
on his velvet mask. His eyes, of a curious hard blue, scanned Rogers
attentively. At a sign from him, Rogers removed his mask. Having
verified his identity with care, the President said, "Very well, Number
Twenty-one," and made an entry in the ledger. The voice was hard and
metallic, like his eyes. The close scrutiny from behind the immovable
black mask seemed to make Rogers uneasy; he shifted his feet, and his
eyes fell. Number One made a sign of dismissal, and Rogers, with a
faint sigh as though of relief, replaced his mask and left the room. As
he came out, the next comer passed in in his place.
The room in which the Society met was a large one, made by knocking
the two largest of the first-floor rooms into one. It was furnished in
the standardised taste of twentieth-century suburbia and brilliantly
lighted. A gramophone in one corner blared out a jazz tune, to which
about ten couples of masked men and women were dancing, some in evening
dress and others in tweeds and jumpers.
In one corner of the room was an American bar. Rogers went up and asked
the masked man in charge for a double whisky. He consumed it slowly,
leaning on the bar. The room filled. Presently somebody moved across to
the gramophone and stopped it. He looked round. Number One had appeared
on the threshold. A tall woman in black stood beside him. The mask,
embroidered with a white 2, covered hair and face completely; only her
fine bearing and her white arms and bosom and the dark eyes shining
through the eye-slits proclaimed her a woman of power and physical
attraction.
"Ladies and gentlemen." Number One was standing at the upper end of the
room. The woman sat beside him; her eyes were cast down and betrayed
nothing, but her hands were clenched on the arms of the chair and her
whole figure seemed tensely aware.
"Ladies and gentlemen. Our numbers are two short to-night." The masks
moved; eyes were turned, seeking and counting. "I need not inform you
of the disastrous failure of our plan for securing the plans of the
Court-Windlesham helicopter. Our courageous and devoted comrades,
Number Fifteen and Number Forty-eight, were betrayed and taken by the
police."
An uneasy murmur rose among the company.
"It may have occurred to some of you that even the well-known
steadfastness of these comrades might give way under examination.
There is no cause for alarm. The usual orders have been issued, and
I have this evening received the report that their tongues have been
effectually silenced. You will, I am sure, be glad to know that these
two brave men have been spared the ordeal of so great a temptation to
dishonour, and that they will not be called upon to face a public trial
and the rigours of a long imprisonment."
A hiss of intaken breath moved across the assembled members like the
wind over a barley-field.