BETTY DOES NOT REMEMBER
It was not till a day later that Betty learnt of the extraordinary
circumstances under which she was found. A police patrol, who crossed
Clapham Common just before daybreak, saw a figure stretched on the
grass, and, thinking it was a sleeping vagrant, stepped over the low
rails that separated the path from the grass-land, and walked toward
it, flashing his lamp upon what appeared to be a big bundle of rugs.
Not the least remarkable feature of the discovery was that, not only
was the girl, as it proved to be, swathed in blankets and lying upon a
hospital stretcher, but in order to ensure her safety, the rugs
enclosed rubber water bottles, which were still hot when she was
found. The policeman had called up an ambulance, and Betty had been
transferred to the nearest hospital.
“I suppose my disappearance is in all the papers?” she said ruefully.
“I am beginning to suspect you of an intensive publicity campaign, Mr.
Holbrook!”
“That isn’t the kind of publicity you’d get from me, Miss Carew,” he
said quietly. “You are sure you remember nothing?”
“No, nothing.” She was emphatic on that point. “I had some queer
dreams, but I remember nothing after lying down in my bed, until I
woke yesterday in the hospital.”
This time Bullott was present at the interview.
“Did you drink anything before you lay down?” he asked.
“Some milk,” she said. “My landlady generally leaves me a glass in
the hall.”
“That, of course, could have been got at if the people were waiting
for you in the house, as I suspect they were.”
He had found that the landlady was got out of the way by the simple
process of sending her a reserved stall for the Lyceum. A messenger
boy had brought it in that afternoon.
“Does Dr. Laffin know?” she asked quickly.
“He has been told, but he is not very much interested,” said Bill.
“He said that he thought you would turn up sooner or later.”
“Mr. Holbrook,” she said, just before he went, “was I dreaming last
night, or did Mr. Lambert Stone see me?”
“You weren’t dreaming this time. And, Miss Carew, you’re going to tell
me something about those dreams of yours, aren’t you, when you’re well
enough?”
“I’ll try; they were extraordinary. I don’t even know now whether they
were real or imaginary.”
“If there was any about my kissing you,” said William Holbrook
coldly, “you can put that down to imagination right away,” and
grinned to see her flush. “No, it was Lambert Stone you saw all right.
He’s got some news for you when he comes to see you this evening.”
“For me?” she said in surprise. “What kind of news?”
“Well--” awkwardly--“it’s pretty good for you, that’s all!”
“This,” said Bullott, when they walked out through the shady grounds
of the hospital, “is the craziest crime that has ever been committed.
The girl is unharmed; she has obviously been kept under the influence
of drugs; the doctor suggests scopolamin, which would keep her in a
state of coma for two days, provided she were kept in the dark; and
when she is found, she is wearing a white silk robe over her
nightdress--a robe which her landlady has never seen before, and which
I don’t suppose Miss Carew would recognise if she saw it. Another
point; when she is picked up by the officer, she is lying on a
stretcher--an ordinary Army stretcher that you can buy at any war
depôt for a pound. That means that she has been wherever she has been
in an ambulance, or some car that was originally used as an ambulance.
I’ve had all the hire depôts investigated, and I’ve had reports from
the country constabulary around London, but no ambulance has been
reported, which cannot be accounted for, though, if it carried no
distinguishing marks, and travelled in the night, I should not expect
a report.”
“Do you mean to suggest that she was two days and two nights
unconscious?” asked Bill incredulously.
“From her point of view, yes,” said Bullott. “If you were to see a
person under its influence you would not imagine that he or she was
drugged. Its effect is to destroy the recollection of what passed a
few seconds before, and our only hope is that there were moments when
the effects of the dope wore off and she can recall to us some
incident which will put us on the track. What does this bird wish?”
“This bird” was a shabby man who had been waiting for them on the
street outside, and now moved as though to intercept them. The face
was that of a weakling; his irregular features, the small, unshaven
chin, the furtive look in his small, pale eyes, said to Holbrook,
something of a physiognomist, “criminal.” To Mr. Bullott, with his
amazing memory for faces, it said two words.
“Well, Tinker, how long have you been out?”
Tinker’s jaw dropped.
“Tinker Lane,” introduced Bullott with embarrassing frankness, “a
ladder larcenist between voyages, eh, Tinker? He’s called Tinker
because he’s a sailor--that is a peculiar form of English humour which
will not appeal to you, Holbrook. What do you want?”
“I don’t want nothing from you, sir,” whined the man, recognising
authority in the inspector’s tone. “I wanted to see this gent.
Somebody told me he was a reporter.”
“Me?” said Bill in surprise.
Bullott drew off discreetly, leaving them alone.
“Excuse me, sir,”--the man’s hoarse confidence was flavoured with a
strong smell of liquor--“but when I was on a voyage to Orstralia,
there was a fellow serving with me who told me he got a lot of money
out of newspapers by telling ’em something about a sea serpent that
he’d seen with his own eyes----”
“If you’re trying to tell me a sea serpent story, you’re letting all
that good vinous breath run to waste,” said Bill, good-humouredly.
“No, sir, it ain’t that.”
Bill was looking at him curiously. He wore a pair of corduroy
trousers, a ragged blue jersey up to his neck, and the greasy cap on
his head had once adorned the head of a ship’s officer.
“I’ve got a story that’s worth pots of money!” said Tinker. “I’ll bet
it’s worth thousands!”
With elaborate caution he looked round to see if he was observed, and
then, diving deep into his trousers pocket, he produced a little green
and gold star, with an inscription in the centre, which Bill saw was
in Greek, though he was insufficiently acquainted with that ancient
tongue to translate or even read it.
“Five points,” said Tinker Lane impressively. “Pain, Sorrow”--he
ticked them off with a grimy forefinger--“Hunger, Thirst and Death.
How’s that?”
“Sounds pretty good to me,” said Bill. “What is it supposed to be? A
patent medicine ad.?”
“No, it ain’t, it’s a story.”
For the third time he looked nervously around.
“What did they ask me to come in for--me, that never had any education
and never wanted it; me that has been in bird----”
“‘Bird’?” said the puzzled William.
“Quod--you know, prison--over the Alps--anything you like. I’ve been
in four times. You wouldn’t think they’d want a man like me, would
you? As a matter of fact, I didn’t understand what they were jabbering
about. It made me laugh to hear this big guy in a black cloak talking
about duty and responsibility and all that hunk. But I had to go
through with the first degree, and when it was over they come for
me--tapped me on the shoulder as I was going out of the lodge.”
“The Proud Sons of Ragousa?” gasped Bill.
“Got it first time. The fellow that tapped me was an old shipmate of
mine, a chap that got five years in Singapore for knifing the mate of
a ship he was sailing with. He told me they picked him up in the East
India Dock Road when he was down and out.”
Bill turned and beckoned Bullott to him.
“Listen to this,” he said. “Our friend is telling me a little story
about the Proud Sons that will make your ears prick!”
“I haven’t given you the story yet. You’ve only got the beginning of
it,” the dilapidated Tinker made haste to assure them.
“Wait,” said Bill, and told his friend what had already passed
between them.
“When this man tapped you on the shoulder--this old shipmate of
yours--what did he want you to do?”
“I didn’t know it was him, to tell you the truth. He had one of those
bed-gowns on. But he told me to wait for him outside, and we went off
to the White Hart to have a drink, and he spilled the rest of the
yarn. He said they’d picked him up in the East India Dock Road, down
and out, took him up to the lodge and made him a member--the Limehouse
Lodge, Number--well, I don’t know what the number is, anyway, it was
Limehouse. The biggest lodge in London. After that they made him into
the Twenty-Third Degree. That’s what I am--the Twenty-Third Degree,”
he said impressively. “You’d never guess it, would you? But I am; I
can go down to any of these Ragousa fellows and make ’em do what I
like--in a sense! I couldn’t make ’em give me money without putting
’em out: I know that because I’ve tried. But it’s one of the swell
lodges.”
“You’re a member of the Twenty-Third Degree, and that star----”
“Ah! That star!” said the other, with grinning triumph. “That’s what
I’m going to tell you about. What’s going to be done in July--the
twenty-ninth of July? Do you know what I am?” He pointed to himself.
“I’m second engine-room guard. It’s worth ten thousand quid to me. You
wouldn’t believe it--ten thousand quid, and I haven’t got the price of
a doss!”
“In that case,” said Bill, “it doesn’t seem that it’s worth while
your telling the story for a few paltry pounds.”
“Ten thousand wouldn’t buy my neck: I love myself too much. Besides,
how do you know they’re not going to double-cross me? It would be the
easiest thing in the world. I know something better. You slip me five
hundred of the brightest and best, and I’ll give you a story that’ll
make your hair stand on end, and all your newspaper readers go blue
with fright. You think I am bluffing, but I’m not. It’s the bird in
the hand I want, and I’ve been following you about London all day
trying to get a word with you, though I didn’t know this gentleman was
a busy, or may be I wouldn’t have come up and talked to you now. I can
get a ship next week for the River Plate, and with five hundred in my
pocket I could have a peach of a time in Buenos Aires. Do I get the
money?”
Bill thought a while quickly.
“I can’t give you the money myself, but I’ll speak to my editor,” he
said. “Will you come to my house to-night at nine o’clock?”
The man accepted the offer eagerly.
“Make it ten,” he said. “I’ve got to meet my friend at nine. And have
the money ready--this is a sensation! And say--why ship flour to
America? And canned meat to America, and rifles and booze--openly?
That’s funny, ain’t it? So long!”
And with no other word of explanation he slouched off.
Inspector Bullott knew much more about the Proud Sons of Ragousa than
Bill Holbrook imagined. It was not for amusement that he had spent
half the previous night in the newly furnished house of one who, by an
act of fortune, had suddenly found himself a comparatively rich man.
But Bullott’s craving for information was insatiable.
There was a Government department which dealt with “friendly
societies,” and he made a call on the chief of the bureau, to
discover that he might have saved himself a journey.
“The Ragousas do not come under my observation,” said the official.
“We deal solely with benefit societies, that is to say, with societies
the members of which pay a certain sum a week and receive sick pay,
insurance and similar benefits. The Ragousas come into the category of
social clubs, and make no returns of their membership.”
“All that I know of them is that they are a perfectly innocuous
association with an extremely large membership. There has been a
suggestion that their method of dispensing big prizes comes under the
Lottery Act, but you, as a police officer, will know more about that
than I. As a matter of fact,” he confessed, “quite a number of men I
know are members, and they are eminently respectable persons. You will
never eradicate from human nature the desire to dress up.”
There was little in this unsatisfactory interview to add to the sum of
Bullott’s knowledge. More interesting were the confidential reports
which he was receiving from the coast towns. Some of these were a
little disquieting.
“I cannot understand what has come over the Ragousas lately,” wrote
the Chief Constable of Northport. “They seem to be gathering the worst
elements in the town; and if they had somebody recruiting members at
the prison door, I should not be surprised. I have had one or two
complaints from men who have been members of the order for years, and
who say that the class of membership is falling very considerably. I
knew at least three new Ragousas who have convictions behind them, and
one of these is a man who has been twice tried for attempted murder.”
Bullott filed the report and read another, similarly couched. The
Tinker, then, was not the only hard case recently initiated into the
mysteries of the Proud Sons.
Later in the evening he made another call at the hospital. The girl
was up and anxious to return to her lodgings.
“I’m going to ask you a question, Miss Carew, and I’d like you to give
a lot of thought before you reply. You have some confused recollection
of what happened to you after you were taken from your house?”
“Very confused,” she smiled, “so confused that even now I am
perfectly certain I saw you and Mr. Holbrook.”
“Did you by any chance see Dr. Laffin, or hear his voice?” he asked.
She shook her head.
“No, I have no recollection whatever, though one of the voices I heard
was familiar. Do you think Dr. Laffin was responsible?”
“I wouldn’t like to mention any names,” said the diplomatic Bullott.
“I don’t remember.” She shook her head again. “I certainly have no
impression of the doctor. The only thing I am certain about is that I
was on a stretcher. I was found lying on a stretcher, wasn’t I? Well,
I must have been on that most of the time. I have a distinct
recollection of my bed sagging in the middle, and I’m sure I must have
been in a car, for I remember distinctly the buzzing and vibration,
and somebody saying that we had lost the way.” She laughed softly.
“Perhaps Mr. Holbrook was not in it, but that part of my dream was
very vivid.”
“About his kissing you?” asked the unemotional Bullott, and she
gasped and went red.
“How did you know?” she demanded.
“You mentioned something about his kissing you when you woke up.”
“If you ever discuss this with Mr. Holbrook, I wish you would
emphasise the fact that the experience from beginning to end was a
nightmare. Please remember to say that.”
Bullott smiled to himself as he went out. That little conversation
would bear repeating, he thought, but unfortunately, when he reached
his house Bill Holbrook was out.