THE SEEN PRIOR
That a man should be shot dead in broad daylight, on one of the most
crowded streets of London, and that the murderer should have escaped,
offered to the leader-writer of every metropolitan newspaper an
opportunity and an excuse for calling into question the prescience and
genius of the detective force.
The Chief sent for Bullott, and, without a word, handed him a thick
bunch of newspaper cuttings, and the first thing that caught the
inspector’s eye was a paragraph:
“In the circumstances it is rather remarkable that the officer in
charge of the case should be Inspector Bullott, who, we understand, is
in this way making his acquaintance with the procedure of criminal
detection. Hitherto, Mr. Bullott has occupied an important position in
the Records Department of Scotland Yard, where he has rendered
admirable service to the State, but which can hardly have fitted him
for the duty he is now called upon to perform.”
Bullott’s heart went down with a thump. The rosy dreams of success,
already dim, faded greyly.
“Read the next one,” suggested the police chief.
The second of the leaders was even more ruthless.
“Mr. Bullott, who is in charge of this case, is certainly pursuing
methods which are, to say the least, unorthodox. Despising the
assistance which trained and efficient police officers, accustomed to
such cases, could give to him, he seems to be satisfied with the help
of a man of doubtful antecedents and a reporter attached to the staff
of one of our contemporaries. Admirable as this combination may appear
to the inexperienced Mr. Bullott, an anxious public will not be
impressed…”
“The third one is almost as bad,” said the Chief, and the troubled
Inspector Bullott took up the third cutting reluctantly.
It was from the _Post-News_.
“… frankly, we must ask Scotland Yard to consider seriously whether
they are taking all the steps possible to bring to justice this
unknown assassin. As frankly, we state that it is, in our opinion, a
grave error of judgment to place so important a case in the hands of
an inexperienced police officer, a gentleman who has never before
handled so much as a minor prosecution…”
“I suppose that means you want me to go back to my office, sir?” said
Bullott.
The old chief chuckled.
“It means nothing of the kind,” he said. “I’ve been on to the
newspapers--I know the editors of most--and I’ve found that those
leaders were written on information supplied yesterday afternoon from
a source which they, of course, refuse to reveal. The information was
couched in the same terms, all having one object, which is to clear
you out of this case. And they wouldn’t be worrying about you and your
peculiar friends if there wasn’t a reason--it is quite enough for me,
Bullott, that they wish you replaced. I’ll take the unpopular course
of confirming you in that appointment. The police force that is
popular isn’t doing its duty! Now, what about this shooting of
Holbrook? How is he, by the way?”
“Practically well,” said Bullott. “The Press knows nothing about this
last attempt, and I propose to keep it quiet for a day or two.”
The chief nodded.
“Marsh may be a difficult proposition for you to handle, but there’s
nothing new in making use of a man of his questionable past. And he’s
a character--I wouldn’t be surprised if he knew much more about this
business than you give him credit for.”
The conference lasted an hour, and when Bullott issued into the street
the first thing he saw was an early newspaper bill:
“_Murder Witness Kidnapped._”
Betty’s story was now public property. Bill Holbrook’s column had been
the big news of the morning, and although he had dealt as sketchily as
possible with the girl and her experience, he had left no doubt in the
reader’s mind that her disappearance from London for three days was
directly associated with the murder of Brother John.
“Not that I’m sure about that,” he said, when Bullott had returned
and showed him the paper. “When we can persuade this young lady to
tell us her dreams, we shall probably form another opinion--you got a
good roasting from the morning papers, Bullott. What do they say at
headquarters?”
Bullott turned up his thumbs suggestively.
“The opposition is organised, of course,” said Bill, laying down the
paper, “and that brings me down to Laffin. There is a Laffin touch in
that stuff that can’t be mistaken. And, if you want news, here’s an
item that’ll tickle you to death; La Florette has taken Lord
Towcester’s house in Portman Place for the season, and is entertaining
on a large scale, prior to her departure to winter in South America.
You don’t see anything funny about it? I do! Florette is nearly broke,
so is Van Campe. The failure of his last show has brought more
creditors to his doorstep than he can accommodate. In fact,
Florette--whose other name is Hamshaw--has started economising. Toby
Marsh lodges with her mother and knows. A year’s rent of that Portman
Place house is about two thousand pounds; it will cost five thousand a
year to run--and that is without etceteras.”
Bullott was only mildly interested.
“That’s her trouble,” he said.
“And yours too,” said Bill, and before he could explain what he
meant, Bullott’s housekeeper announced a visitor.
It was Mr. Pawter, and in the quiet eyes that gleamed behind his
thick, horn-rimmed glasses was a ghoulish satisfaction.
“This comes of leaving the innocent pursuits of commerce, William,”
he said, glancing approvingly at the white-bandaged head.
“How the devil did you know I was shot up?”
“It has just come on the street, in the later editions,” said Mr.
Pawter. “That is why I called.”
By this time Bullott was halfway down the stairs to his telephone. He
had many friends on the Press, and his first call was at the _Evening
Gazette_.
“It came through on the tape,” said the news editor reproachfully.
“You might have tipped us off, Bullott.”
“What agency sent it out?” demanded the inspector.
“The Central Association.”
Fortunately, Bullott had friends at this court also, but they could
give him little satisfaction.
“We had a ’phone call this morning saying Holbrook was shot, and one
of our reporters saw the hall-keeper in Albemarle Street, and
interviewed the doctor who attended him.”
“There’s a very busy newsgiver wandering round,” he said, when he
returned to Bill and told him the result of his investigations.
“It doesn’t matter, except to you,” said Bill. “I presume the idea of
spreading the report is to discredit you still further as a sleuth.”
“They can go right on discrediting,” said Bullott, with quiet
satisfaction. “I don’t suppose that it matters. The Chief has given me
a new assistant--” he glanced at Mr. Pawter, listening open-mouthed,
and decided that it was not a moment for confidences.
“That is Father Pips,” explained Holbrook, when his relative had
gone. “Pawter’s Publicity Agency, my respected cousin, a bachelor, has
no criminal tendencies so far as I know, except a passion for
gramophone music, and is not even remotely connected with the Proud
Sons of Ragousa----”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” said Bullott. “He’s the Seen Prior of
that exalted order.”
“The Seen Prior? What are you talking about?”
“I’ve been going into this Ragousa question rather thoroughly,” said
Bullott, “and I have collected more information in the past few days
than I ever hoped to get. It is part of the scheme of the Proud Sons
that no brother shall know another, though, of course, so far as the
lower ranks are concerned, this idea doesn’t work, and isn’t expected
to work. But, higher up, amongst the Grand Lodge folk and the
Twenty-Third Degree, and higher still, amongst the Priors of the
Order, the system of secrecy is a rigid one. There are fourteen
Priors: the Grand Prior, twelve others in residence, and the
fourteenth, who comes occasionally and acts for the Grand Prior in
certain matters. He’s the only man whose face is never covered. That
man is Pawter!”
“You’re crazy!” said Bill.
“I tell you I’m speaking by the book. I’ve had a man down in Dartmoor,
and we’ve trailed the Priors to their home. Twelve years ago, an old
monastery on the edge of Dartmoor came into the market as a result of
a branch of a religious order returning to Italy, where it belonged.
The property was purchased on behalf of the Ragousas by Pawter
himself. It is a queer, ancient building, surrounded by a high wall in
the most desolate part of Dartmoor, and thousands of pounds were spent
in renovation before the Grand Priors came into residence. The Priors
do not know one another. They live fairly well; each has his own
suite, and is waited upon by a lower order Ragousa, specially chosen
for the purpose, and well paid for the job. Pawter goes down to the
Priory every six months, and when you think the matter over you’ll
realise the wisdom of having one of the Priors unmasked. Twice a year
the lottery occurs, which has made the Proud Sons of Ragousa so
popular with the speculating public. The man who does the drawing is
Pawter. It is carried out, of course, in the presence of the others,
and every precaution is taken to ensure the draw being a fair one.
Hundreds of thousands of metal-rimmed tickets, on each of which is
written the official number of a member, are placed in a barrel and
turned. The Seen Prior puts his hand through an aperture, takes out a
ticket, and that is the first prize-winner. I should not have known
this but for the discovery I made last night, that every man who draws
a big argosy is present at the next drawing, under a vow of secrecy,
of course. I interviewed four of the lucky ones before I could get one
to talk, and by an odd chance it happened that he knew Pawter
personally, and had worked in his office. Now I’m going to tell you
something else; the head of the order is Leiff Stone. My informant
told me something I did not know; that there was a Chaplain of the
Priors, a short, stout man, whose face naturally he did not see, but
whom he heard addressed as ‘Brother John’.”
Bill whistled.
“Here’s a problem for you”--Bullott spoke slowly--“Brother John is
the confidant of the Grand Prior, the most trusted member of the
order. Why was he shot? I am taking the strongest party of police that
ever went to Dartmoor, and raiding the Grand Priory, and when I come
out, the murderer of Brother John will be in my hands!”