SCOTLAND YARD
There is that within the professional criminal’s nature which distrusts
the men who carry out the laws. The laws, themselves, may be fair, but
man, in the cracksman’s opinion, is a human element who is very liable
to overplay his part.
Chester Fay had lain too long on the hard planks at Dartmoor to believe
in MacKeenon’s good intentions. The Scot had a reputation for getting
results. He was also the very keen tool of brainier men who managed the
Criminal Intelligence Division of Scotland Yard.
The romance of all underworld activity on the Continent and in England
was bound up in the Yard. Its long arm could reach down a blind alley in
Paris and snatch a man to the light of justice. It could lift a fleeing
suspect from the deck of a ship at sea. It stopped at nothing!
Fay suspected a well-baited trap of the superior order as he followed
MacKeenon through a dim-lighted hallway. He gripped his palms as they
waited in the gloom for a door to be unlocked by the servant who had
answered the inspector’s knock of four taps and then five.
The room which was suddenly revealed, like the flash of a cinematograph,
contained a long mahogany table running from wall to wall, and a
half-score of heavy teakwood chairs which blended into the rich dark
finish of the wainscoting. There was little else in the way of
furnishings. Fay counted three black tin boxes upon the table. Each box
was marked with a code number and the initials C. I. D. His eyes lifted
over these boxes and stared at a man who wore a mask which was far too
small to hide a jaw so square and masterful. It brought a slight smile
of recognition to the cracksman’s lips.
The man in the mask was Sir Richard Colstrom, Chief of the Criminal
Investigation Division!
Fay divined, with the flash thoughts of a professional, that the matter
of bringing him out of Dartmoor was an important one. It could be
nothing puerile with Sir Richard mixed up in the case. The chief played
a high hand and played it hard.
The farce of the mask was apparent when MacKeenon softly closed the door
to the hallway, turned the key, then coughed as in a signal. Sir Richard
half rose from the deep chair in which he had been reclining and leaned
his elbows upon the table. His finger lowered and leveled straight for
Fay’s steady glance.
“Remove your cap!”
Fay smiled thinly, reached upward and brought down the plaid cap which
he bunched in his right hand. The silver of his hair caught the chief’s
eyes. Sir Richard raised his brows and glanced at MacKeenon. He said
cuttingly:
“A little older—a little wiser—a little grayer than before, eh Mac?”
“A’ hae noo doot ov it.”
Both men laughed at Fay’s expense. The cracksman failed to see the joke.
He stiffened slightly and glanced about the room. The windows were
shaded and undoubtedly locked. The lamps of the place were controlled by
a switch near the door which led to the hallway. This seemed to be the
only entrance or exit to the room.
Sir Richard noted the result of his thrust with a steady glint in his
eyes. He leaned further over the table and said:
“I had you brought to London for a reason, Fay.”
The cracksman closed his fists and straightened his slender shoulders.
He distrusted Sir Richard full-heartedly. There is that which exists
between the police and the criminal tribes which calls for no truce. Fay
was completely on his guard.
“I had you brought here,” continued the Chief of Staff, “after some
study of the right and the wrong in the matter. We have your record!”
Sir Richard pointed toward the south and the direction of New Scotland
Yard.
“Yes, we have it,” he continued slowly. “It’s a criminal shame, Fay,
that a man of your ability ever entered the downward path of crime. It
leads nowhere, and damn fast you go. You’re bucking the stream all of
the time. You can’t beat the law!”
Fay glanced along his tweed suit and studied the points of his
well-polished shoes. They fitted so well he wondered if they had been
made from his Bertillon measurements. He glanced up and into Sir
Richard’s half-hidden eyes.
“You can’t beat it—clever as you are! And, however much we may enjoy
enterprise and however many shilling-shockers and penny-dreadfuls we
have devoured, the fact remains, Fay, that you have sadly misapplied
your splendid talents.”
Fay took the flattery for what he thought it was worth. He waited with
every sense keen and intent.
“But for you,” continued Sir Richard, shaking his index-finger, “but for
you and your kind, literature would be poorer—we’ll grant that—”
Fay heard MacKeenon rounding the corner of the table and fingering the
locked boxes.
“We’ll grant it!” snapped Sir Richard testily. “We’ll grant your
talents. It is because of them that we have brought you here tonight! As
man to man, Fay, we’re in a knot. I’m sure you are the one rogue in all
the known world who can help us out. I’m going to be very candid!”
Fay said nothing.
“See these?” exclaimed Sir Richard, pointing at the boxes upon the
mahogany table. “See them?”
MacKeenon stepped back into the gloom of the room. Fay followed the
direction of Sir Richard’s polished fingernail. He raised his brows in
polite query. He still remained mute.
“Damnit man!” said the chief of the Intelligence Division, “Wake up!
Show interest! It’s easy enough for us to send you back.”
The cracksman acknowledged this threat by leaning closer to the boxes.
He studied the cryptic numbers on their sides. He turned his head
slightly and laid the plaid cap on the edge of the table.
“They’d be easy opened,” he offered professionally.
“Bah! That isn’t what we want. What we want is this—without mincing
words. We want your coöperation. Let’s be brief as time and get to the
heart of the matter. These boxes, three in number, contain the secrets
of the entire dye industry. They were obtained in Switzerland during the
middle period of the war. They are in cipher!”
“German?” asked Fay with cold concern.
“Yes, damnit, German! No other nation could show such fiendish cunning
in hiding so simple a thing. The cipher is one to which neither Scotland
Yard, the Intelligence Bureau of the Army and Navy, French experts on
such matters, nor the American Secret Service have been able to find the
slightest clue.”
Fay had the good sense to hold his tongue. Sir Richard was warming up to
the problem. He shifted in his chair, glanced at MacKeenon, then toward
the three boxes.
“The cipher,” he said, tapping the table with his forefinger, “is either
very simple or very intricate. It is no half-way affair. It has baffled
all the experts!”
The cracksman eyed the locks of the boxes with professional concern. He
shifted his weight from his right leg to his left foot. He yawned
politely and passed his hand over his silver-gray hair. As yet no trust
or warmth showed in his eyes. They were neutral.
Sir Richard adjusted his mask and leaned forward. His eyes bored through
the holes in the black velvet. “Whatever the case may be, Fay,” he said,
“the key for this code or cipher was in the hands of a Berlin chemist
who met with a most violent death in—we will say a country north and
east of here. You can guess which one it is!”
“Holland?”
“Perhaps. We’ll leave the matter rest with your surmise. In
this—country—north and east of here, the German chemist did one thing
before he was slain. He left a small packet with the neutral nation’s
embassy. It was placed in their care. This packet is of vital importance
to us! It is important to your own country, Fay. It is the key to the
cipher locked in these three boxes.”
“Well?” asked Fay as Sir Richard paused and thrust out his hand. “Well,
what have I got to do with all this?”
Sir Richard doubled up his fingers and tapped the polished surface of
the table with his white knuckles. He turned, threw one leg over the
other and stared at MacKeenon. The Scotch inspector nodded ever so
slightly. It was like a sly dog signaling another.
The air of the long room was tense as the three men faced each other.
The outer roar of London sounded far away. The steady clank of the
constable’s feet on the hard curb was a reminder to Fay that the house
was well guarded. He thawed a trifle and fastened upon Sir Richard an
engaging smile which was coated with clean-cut intentiveness.
“What have I got to do with all this?” he repeated, holding forth his
hands. “You’ve released me—on parole. You’ve brought me to London.
You’ve mentioned boxes and ciphers and dye-stuff. You want something,
and yet behind me stands an officer of the law, and outside, walks
another. If you want something, from me, why don’t you let me go?”
The shot was delivered through clean, white teeth. The smile faded from
the cracksman’s lips. He leaned slightly forward and locked Sir
Richard’s eyes with a glance that caused the chief of the bureau to
recoil slightly.
“Yes!” said Fay hotly. “Yes, Sir Richard—oh, I know you! You’ve gyved
me! You hounded me! You threw me in that hell-hole called Dartmoor with
the wooden-minded screws walking before my cell till I thought I would
go mad. You saw to it that I was sent away for the limit! Now you want
something, and you won’t trust me away from your coppers!”
“Coppers?” asked Sir Richard removing the mask and dropping it to the
table. “What are coppers, Fay?”
“Police! Screws! Guards! Turnkeys! Hell-hounds!”
Sir Richard stared at MacKeenon and motioned toward the door.
“Go out, Mac,” he said, “and leave us to ourselves. I think that Fay and
I can come to an understanding better that way.”
The inspector hesitated, walked to the door, turned the key and passed
out into the hallway.
The door closed as Sir Richard rubbed his hands, eyed Fay with interest,
and leaned back in the chair.
“Now,” he said, “we are alone. I’ve no doubt that you can get away. In
fact I’d hate to match myself against you, Fay. We have your record, you
know.”
“A lot of it isn’t true!” said Fay bitterly. “You people are always
making up things. I didn’t turn that trick in Hatton Gardens. Why, do
you think I’d work without gloves?”
“I didn’t think so, Chester,” said Sir Richard with a faint smile. “I
really didn’t, but I guess you did!”
“Bah!”
“Oh, now, don’t take it that way. The strong-box was opened—without
trace. Up over the transom was a trace—your right thumb print. It was a
nice clean job, Fay. I always thought that Saidee Isaacs was with you
that night.” The chief leaned slightly forward. He watched the
cracksman’s eyes for a clue. There was none. Fay returned the stare
without expression. He said staunchly:
“Miss Saidee Isaacs had no more to do with that job than you had or I
had. I don’t even know where Hatton Gardens is.”
“That’s enough! You know and I know. You’ve got the cunning of your
tribe—admit nothing and deny everything. But I’ve taken an interest in
you—a personal one. Things have come up—”
Sir Richard glanced at the door and then at the three boxes. He crossed
his legs and drummed the table. His brow furrowed as he reached forward
and fingered the velvet mask.
“Come closer, Fay,” he said confidentially. “around here.”
Fay was frankly suspicious. He turned sharply and stared at the windows.
He eyed the door behind which he sensed that MacKeenon would be
crouching. He wheeled and rested his hands on the table. He leaned
forward until his face was very close to Sir Richard’s.
“We can talk just as well in this position,” he said without moving his
drawn lips. “Now, what are you getting at, chief?”
“I thought that Saidee Isaacs was in it,” said Sir Richard. “I’ll take
my statement back. But you were, and I’m glad of it.”
Fay rubbed his wrists and stared at his oakum-stained nails. He dropped
his cuffs and stood back. He waited with fast beating heart. The man
before him was fencing like a clever fiend. He already had drawn speech
where silence was golden. Fay remembered with a pang that the Hatton
Gardens affair was not the only one he had been guilty of perpetrating
in the Metropolitan District of London. There was a little matter of
turning a museum off in Kensington Gardens. There was the Monica affair
where a diamond salesman had lost a pint of uncut stones.
Sir Richard guessed what was passing in the cracksman’s mind. He smiled
with sudden warmth. His head came forward as his right hand reached out.
“You think this is a police trap, Fay,” he said sincerely. “It isn’t at
all. It’s an attempt to call upon the highest talent in the world—in his
own particular line. We all have specialties. Mine is trying to raise
better dahlias than my neighbor. Yours is opening strong-boxes which
American safe-makers have branded as burglar-proof. That big crib in
Hatton Gardens was an American box, wasn’t it?”
“How should I know?” asked Fay.
“Well, it was! It was made by the Seabold people of Hartford. Guaranteed
fire-proof and burglar-proof and non-pickable. It didn’t burn up, but
everything else happened to it.”
Fay smiled openly. He liked Sir Richard better for the remark. He grew
more at ease as he waited. “Well,” he suggested, “I’m here with you, and
you’ve got something for me to do. I can guess that much. Does it
concern a Seabold safe?”
“It most certainly does!”
Fay stared at the three boxes. He furrowed his brow. They were not part
of any American safe he had ever known. They were more like the
tin-cases which middle-aged drabs carried about the Law Courts or the
Brokerage Houses. Their locks could have been opened with a hair-pin.
“You’ll have to explain, chief.”
Sir Richard swung open his coat and drew from the inner pocket a small
notebook. He thumbed the pages and paused at one. “Seabold Safe
Corporation, Limited,” he said. “They placed a number of their
strong-boxes in England and the Continent. Their salespeople were very
enterprising. We have a record, from their own files, of seven. Four of
the seven were smaller than the one in Hatton Gardens. The lock, or
whatever it is called, was different.”
Sir Richard glanced up and then buried his nose between the pages of the
notebook.
“Two of the larger,” he said musingly, “were installed in Paris. They’re
there yet. The one that interests us is in the country—north and east of
here. It is the same size and general dimensions as the unfortunate one
you opened in Hatton Gardens. I understand the situation is
similar—parallel. It would be ridiculously easy for a man of your talent
to go to this country, north and east of here, and open that
strong-box—without trace.”
Sir Richard snapped the book shut and glanced up at Fay.
The cracksman slightly moistened his lips. The cat was out of the bag!
The reason for MacKeenon’s visit to Dartmoor—the release when five years
were yet to be served—the sudden interest of Sir Richard Colstrom, were
all explained. England, who had severely punished him, now wanted a
favor done.
The two men exchanged a glance of mutual understanding. Fay’s mind
worked swiftly. He went over the details of his arrest. He recalled the
method he had used in opening the great safe in Hatton Gardens. No other
man could have done it, save by bungling.
“Suppose,” he said, feeling surer of his ground. “Suppose, Sir Richard,
we will say that I can go to Holland and open that box—without trace.
What would there be in it for me?”
“Ah, we’re getting on!”
“I’m not so sure that we are getting anywhere, for what would happen to
me if I were lagged in Holland? Suppose somebody tipped me off? What
then?”
“You and I alone know what you are going to do.”
“MacKeenon?”
“He obeys orders. I like you, Fay. Damnit, I admire enterprise—even if
it is opening strong-boxes! What would Scotland Yard be if there weren’t
men like you in the world? You’re a mark and all that, but you’ve done
one or two big things in your line.”
Fay rubbed his wrists as if handcuffs were still binding him. He shifted
his weight and eyed the three boxes with new concern. “My price,” he
said, “may be more than you or England are willing to pay.”
“No price is too high to pay for the key to this cipher.” Sir Richard
jerked a thumb toward the black boxes. “The secret for making these dyes
will save the world from a galling monopoly. It will make the place we
live in, Fay, just that much safer for Democracy. The war between
nations is over. There will come another war—the commercial one between
Germany and the world. We can best win that war by being prepared—by
dye-works and potash deposits and freedom from secret formulae.”
Fay nodded at this statement. “My country—America—is interested in
this?” he asked.
“Yes and no! Your country shares with England in every discovery. This
set of boxes which contain the cipher were obtained in Switzerland at a
high cost. Three of our men were waylaid and killed. Two more were
trapped in a Berne hotel and had to fight their way out. The German
chemist who offered the dye secrets—at a price—is dead by poison. We got
the boxes through. They contain the full details of manufacturing
thirty-six of the principal dyes. They are in a baffling cipher which
has held us up.”
“And the key to this cipher is in the Holland safe?”
“We believe so. A friend of the man who was poisoned brought the key out
and across the German border. He was followed by German agents. He was
in danger of his life. What was more natural than an appeal to the
embassy? They took the key, placed it in their safe, and waited for
instructions. In the meantime the man was stabbed to death in broad
daylight, near the Schwartz Canal. His pockets were rifled! His clothes
were torn from his body!”
“Sounds like a pleasant commission,” said Fay dryly.
“You’ll tackle it?”
Fay eyed Sir Richard, then reached for his cap.
“Does it mean my freedom?” he asked as he fingered the visor.
“It certainly does, Chester! That little bit you did in Dartmoor never
happened. You were sent away, wrong. I’ll answer for the Home Secretary.
We can arrange everything! Come now—can we call upon you to go to that
country, north and east of here, and open the embassy’s vault without
compromising us or without leaving a trace? All we want is the key to
the cipher. If you’re not willing to make a try for it—then—”
Sir Richard hesitated and rose from his chair. He stood with his hands
clasping the edge of the table. His jaw was thrust forward like a block.
His eyes hardened to points of tempered steel. They bored toward the
cracksman. “Take your pick, Fay!” he said in a last appeal.
“Pick of what?”
“Getting the key to the cipher or going back to Dartmoor!”
“There’s no alternative,” said Fay with a rare smile. “I’ll turn the
trick for you and England! If I don’t turn the trick, without trace and
without compromise, then I’ll knock on the big gate at the prison and
ask to be taken in. Is that satisfactory, Sir Richard Colstrom?”
“I never had the slightest doubt of you,” said the Chief of the Criminal
Investigation Division.