THE WHITE CIPHER
BY HENRY LEVERAGE
AUTHOR OF WHISPERING WIRES, Etc.
NEW YORK
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS
COPYRIGHT, 1919 BY
MOFFAT, YARD & COMPANY
First Edition—June 1st, 1919
Second Edition—July 28th, 1919
TO
“A WILD STAR”
CONTENTS
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I. The Open Gate
II. Scotland Yard
III. The Cipher
IV. Saidee Isaacs
V. At Daybreak
VI. Edged Tools
VII. Passengers for Holland
VIII. Lurking Shadows
IX. Robbery under Arms
X. A Return Stroke
XI. Checkmated
XII. Smoked-glasses
XIII. The Long Arm
XIV. The House of the Lions
XV. Solved
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THE WHITE CIPHER
CHAPTER I
THE OPEN GATE
Swirled in the maze of a slow awakening, dropped through an abyss from
zenith to nadir, the prisoner came out of his dreams and stared through
the bars of his door to the pearl gray of the coming dawn.
C-45—better known in international underworld circles as Chester Fay,
alias Edward Letchmere—was serving ten years at hard labor for the
crime, committed against the peace and dignity of the country, of
opening—by means unguessed by Scotland Yard—a jeweler’s strong-box in
Hatton Gardens; which is, aside from “The Old Lady of Threadneedle
Street,” the strictest patrolled district in the city of London.
Chester Fay, alias Edward Letchmere, studied the crack of dawn as it
crept over the man-made barricade, through the slotted windows of the
great gray cell block, and bathed the harsh walls of the prison with the
rosy light of pearl changed into ruby and from ruby into gold.
And there was something prophetic in the mellow magic of the chromatic
changes in the English sky!
A bell clanged at the front of the prison. A key grated in a lock. An
iron door opened. Shuffling feet sounded, like an old woman’s in a lane.
C-45 lowered the edge of his shoddy blanket—stamped here and there with
the broad arrow—and watched where the grated bars of the door formed
tiny crosses against the dull gray of the wall.
The shuffling came nearer the cell. It stopped. A key clicked against
another. The footfalls were resumed. A surly beef-and-beer face blotted
out the light from the corridor as Chester Fay raised himself upon his
hinged shelf.
“C-45?” inquired the turnkey.
“Y—es,” breathed Fay.
The aged turnkey squinted at the paper he held in trembling fingers. He
eyed the door number and blinked his matted lashes.
“C-45,” he said, “get your clothes on. Y’re going hout!”
Had the slaty roof of the stony coffin, which he had learned to call
home, fallen down upon him, Fay would not have been more surprised. He
twisted his lithe body, touched his bare toes to the cold stones of the
flagging, and stood erect, the heart within his breast throbbing like an
imprisoned bird.
The red, peering face beyond the bars, the tiny rimmed eyes with their
matted lashes, the thick purple lips, the bulbous nose of the turnkey,
represented British justice carried to the furthermost limit of caution
and concern for His Majesty’s prisoners.
Fay had hated this guard over the five years at Dartmoor as he had hated
the gruel and molasses served in the morning, the stew at noon, or the
gummy oakum piled in the cell to be picked strand by strand in an
unending drudgery.
Now this “screw,” so called by the inmates of Dartmoor, had delivered
the sweetest words ever dropped into human ears. Fay never knew how he
dressed on that morning. It was done. He waited and pressed his slender
body against the latticed bars, with his ears straining to catch the
iron music of the thrown bolt.
The great key turned. The door swung open. Fay glided out from his cell
and stood at attention with his fingers touching against the seams of
his dirt-gray prison trousers.
The guard locked the door. He peered at the paper he held. He squinted
at the number upon the stone over the doorway, then he motioned Fay to
follow him up the long corridor of the white-flagged cell block.
The prisoner followed the burly form of his keeper. He threw back his
keen-cut face while his eyes lighted with a sanguine fire that burned
clear through the gloom to the iron door of liberty.
This door swung open after a signal was passed between guard and keeper.
Prisoners pressed white faces to the many bars of the place. A whisper
ran from cell to cell. The American was going free! They watched Fay as
he passed through the arch and sank back into their narrow coffins as
the great door clanged.
Fay waited, breathed silently, compressed his lips, then followed the
guard along a narrow hallway and into an open court, whose one
high-barred gate was flanked by two castellated towers upon which
sentries stood with rifles swung under their arms.
MacKeenon, of Scotland Yard, stood in the very center of the courtyard.
At the inspector’s feet a yellow kit-bag rested. Over the Scot’s right
arm a plaid overcoat hung. Within the detective’s light-blue eyes there
sparkled the dry twinkle of recognition.
Chester Fay moistened his lips with the tip of his tongue. He hesitated,
then advanced step by step. He had last seen Inspector MacKeenon on the
witness dais of the September Assizes. It was the Scot’s testimony
concerning a certain finger-print which had carried the staid British
jury. Such a trifle!
A sandy-colored hand crept up to MacKeenon’s chin and covered his mouth.
The eyes closed to narrow slits. It was like a sly old dog warning
another, not so sly, not near so old. Chester Fay understood. He turned
toward the turnkey who had brought him out.
“Follow me, sir,” he heard him say.
The way led across the courtyard, through a low stone arch and into a
Bertillon room, then to where a cold shower splashed upon well-scoured
flags. The turnkey pointed to the descending water. Fay stripped, tossed
the hated clothes away from him, lathed his lean, long-limbed body and
mopped his silver-gray hair. It had been brown when he had entered the
castellated gate, five long years before the unexpected coming of
Inspector MacKeenon.
The clothes the turnkey brought had evidently come out of the yellow
kit-bag. They fitted. They were of price and rich texture. There were
also the little things which a gentleman carries—a flat, gold watch, a
set of studs and cuff-links, a pearl pin and a neat cigarette case which
contained six cigarettes.
Fay accepted all these things with the abstract air of one born lucky.
He did not understand the meaning of it all. Discharged prisoners, or
those released by order of the Home Secretary, were fitted with H.M.P.
garments made of shoddy by piece-work convicts whose hearts were
elsewhere when they worked.
“Hall ready, sir?” asked the red-faced guard with strange civility.
Fay lifted his slender shoulders slightly, adjusted his cuffs, touched
his cravat and faced the light which streamed in through the Bertillon
room. He did not answer the turnkey. The sovereign contempt of a caged
eagle was in his glance.
He drew down his plaid cap which matched so well the suit of tweeds,
lowered his chin and followed the turnkey out into the glad light of
dawning day and across the stone-flagged yard to MacKeenon’s side.
A prison clerk—one of those rat-eyed trusties whom nobody trusts—hurried
out from the Principal Keeper’s office with an oblong of printed paper.
He passed this release to MacKeenon.
The inspector signed it with the butt of a badly chewed indelible
pencil, glanced at Fay, then said distinctly—too distinctly:
“A receipt for C-45. Yea, he may b’back. Ye canna tell!”
To the man who had prowled the world like a tiger a jungle—to the third
cracksman living who could open a modern cannon-ball safe or stop the
four circular tumblers of a strong-box in their correct position—this
sly aside of MacKeenon’s was enlightening. The old gray dog, whose scent
was keener than a Louisiana bloodhound’s, was baying down the trail
again for some wolf-pack of the underworld.
Chester Fay set his pale face and fingered his cravat. He dropped his
hands to his side and followed the inspector out through a rising gate,
where the two men stood facing the misted moorland and the spiring
towers of Princetown beyond the causeway. As they stood there a clang
sounded behind. It was the turnkey bringing down the shutter of iron.
A sleeve-valved motor, black, tired with steel-studded rubber, throbbing
with life and a desire to roll up the road, stood close at hand. Into
the tonneau of this car MacKeenon tossed the kit-bag and overcoat, then
turned and assisted Fay to mount the running-board, where he had
hesitated for the minutest fraction of a second.
Liberty was over that causeway. Freedom might be gained by a try at the
marshes and moorland. The mist was almost thick enough to hide in. The
world beyond was very wide indeed. The chance which offered might never
come again. Fay had lost opportunity too often not to weigh well the one
that came to him.
He felt the Inspector’s fingers on his sleeve. They seemed gentle. There
was that, however, in the gripping mystery of his release that savored
of things to come. Perhaps, after all, the man from the Yard had other
plans than the underworld. Perhaps the release had to do with the great
war which had finally been brought to an end. It would be easy to
escape, for Fay had the lithe, long limbs of the runner.
But he thought better of it and stepped through the tonneau door where
MacKeenon had assisted him. The surge, as the car leaped forward and the
driver glided through second, third and into fourth speed, was just
sufficient to cause him to sit down upon the seat, where the inspector,
with solicitude, offered one half of an auto robe whose woolen texture
felt like silk to a man who had slept under shoddy for five years.
The mist-shrouded moors were crossed over rumbling bridges of planks or
hollow arches of stone. The main highway, which swung from west to east
upon the troubled isle, was reached. Into this broad road the driver
turned the great car, stepped upon the governor-throttle and opened wide
the triple-jetted carburetor.
A hissing of indrawn air sounded. The wind of their swift passage struck
back and cut the cuticle of Fay’s white cheeks. They flushed and
reddened with the rush of warm blood up through his sagged veins. He
felt then the sweet wine of life and living—the clean vision and promise
of the open places.
He sat in one position, turning over and over the riddle of his sudden
freedom. It was like being reborn—rejuvenated.
MacKeenon had said no word. He crouched like a watchful hound, ready,
alert for the first overt act. Fay had weighed the chances when he had
first entered the car. They still held good. The great motor often
slowed for traffic—for the tide of war which flowed Londonward, even
after the last treaty of peace had been signed.
Lorries, caissons, embarked troops in olive-drab, invalided officers and
men strolling through the rare English meadows, all were a maelstrom
where freedom from pursuit could be had.
Fay feared no living man or group of men. He had played the underworld
game according to his code. It had been a losing one, perhaps; but he
had held it down to the last grim brush with the hounds of the law in
the Court of Assizes. He had not whimpered. He had not squealed. There
was that rat, Dutch Gus, and that pigeon, Nelly Blake, who might have
stuck by a pal. They were gone now with their telltale eyes and their
overextended sympathies.
Also, for he had played many parts, there was Saidee Isaacs. Where was
she now? She had been different. A hell-cat, perhaps, but then Saidee
was a man’s girl and a lady. Had she gone up or down during the five
years at Dartmoor? Fay rather thought, as he gripped the rare leather of
the car’s upholstery, that Saidee would be found in West London. Could
she have anything to do with his release?
MacKeenon, alone, could answer this riddle. He turned his chin slightly
and studied the cold face of the Scotch inspector. There was no light in
his eyes. He sat half on the edge of the seat. His toes touched the rug
on the tonneau floor. He was prepared to spring or clap on a pair of
nippers. He was the personification of British watchfulness and
sagacity.
The detective had played his hand, five years before, in taking
advantage of information. He had told the truth on the witness dais, as
he knew it. He had not enlarged on the damning evidence. It had been
large enough. Down in his heart Fay did not blame MacKeenon for
testifying as he did. It had sent him away, but then it was part of the
game. It was an added corollary to the ancient axiom: “A sleuth can make
a thousand mistakes and yet may get his quarry—the quarry dare not
afford to overlook the smallest trifle.”
Noon passed. Night drew its shade across the eastern world. The long,
black motor car hurtled on without being stopped, without question from
the decorated officers who regulated the traffic.
There was a hidden magic in the H.M.S. plates which hung from the front
axle and the rear trunk rack. There was a keen hand at the wheel who
knew the turns and the signals. He drove as if the weight of an empire
depended on getting to his destination.
Chester Fay, letting slip a hundred chances for escape, found himself in
the gripping clutch of the unknown which lay before him. MacKeenon had a
plan in the back of his long Scotch head. Its very uncertainty gripped
the cracksman in a passive nip of steel.
The inspector would talk, yes. Fay believed that he would discuss the
weather, the earth and the heaven above, without betraying the one thing
which was hurling them eastward at racing speed.
This thing was the reason for taking a prisoner out of the living hell
of Dartmoor before the long years of penance had been up. It was
unusual; it was extraordinary save in the case where a crook squealed
and turned Crown’s evidence.
The Scotch inspector most certainly knew that he had no such man to deal
with!
The reaching fringe of London was entered. The sky grew pale. Dusk fell
with the great roaring car brightening the asphalt road ahead with
flickering, dancing electrics of tremendous candle-power.
Hyde Park Corner was reached. Piccadilly lay ahead. Sombre mansions
reared on either hand. A hospital, bright with the flags of the
victorious Allies, was passed with closed muffler. The car swerved
toward the Thames. The lamps were dimmed as the Embankment loomed with
its monuments. The brakes went on.
Fay gripped his oakum-stained nails deep within the palms of his white
hands. He had a premonition that his destination was to be New Scotland
Yard. Prisoners were sometimes taken there for interrogation.
The house the car stopped at, with a final clamp of the brakes on the
rear wheels, was inconspicuous among its neighbors. It was smug and
staid and held the air of secret things. A faint light shone through the
closed blinds on the ground floor. Two iron lions guarded the top of a
small flight of well scoured steps. A constable of the Metropolitan
Police Force stood at attention as the driver shifted his lever to
neutral and touched the black visor of his cap.
MacKeenon set his lips and opened the tonneau door on the right-hand
side of the car. The inspector rolled up the lap-robe, handed Fay the
overcoat and lifted the kit-bag. He paused for the cracksman to rise.
Chester Fay felt the creeping fingers of the detective. They strayed
over his tweed sleeve and gripped his elbow with no mean strength. They
were like hound’s teeth feeling for a grip.
“Ye coom with me,” said MacKeenon dryly.
Fay raised his shoulders and stepped to the running-board. His feet
glided over the curb like a quick dancer’s. He followed the inspector, a
quarter-step behind. They passed through an iron-grilled fence, took the
salute of the constable, and reached the landing between the two lions.
A dark, stained door barred the way. Upon the right panel of this door
MacKeenon knocked four times, then five; which Fay remembered, with a
start, was his number at Dartmoor.
He glanced first at the kit-bag, and then turned his head slightly and
finished his scrutiny of the yard and street. Freedom lay there in the
gloom of London!
He tossed away what he believed was his last chance as the door opened
to a crack and then wide. There was no alternative as MacKeenon’s
fingers gripped for a second and stronger hold. Chester Fay, alias
Edward Letchmere, entered the House of the Two Lions, blindly.