Their prisoner was a stranger. He was a lean, furtive-looking man of thirty-five, below middle height, respectably dressed, and at first glance, the colonel, whose hobby was distinguishing at a look the social standing of humanity, was unable to place him.
Crewe locked the door.
Now then, said the colonel, "what the devil were you doing listening at my door? Was that his game, Mr. Silva?"
That was his game, said the other, brushing his hands.
What have you got to say before I send for the police? asked the colonel virtuously. "What have you got to say for yourself? Sneaking about a gentleman's flat, listening at keyholes!"
The man, who had been roughly handled, had risen and was putting his collar straight. If he had been taken aback by the sudden onslaught, he was completely self-possessed now.
If you want to send for the police, you'd better start right away, he said; "you've got a telephone, haven't you? Perhaps I'll have a job for the policeman, too. You've no right to assault me, my friend," he said, addressing Pinto resentfully.
What were you doing? asked the colonel.
Find out, said the man sharply.
The colonel stroked his long moustache, and his manner underwent a change.
Now look here, old man, he said almost jovially; "we're all friends here, and we don't want any trouble. I daresay you've made a mistake, and my friend has made a mistake. Have a whisky and soda?"
The man grinned crooked.
Not me, thank you, he said emphatically; "if I remember rightly, there was a young gentleman who took a glass of water in North Lambeth Police Court the other day, and----"
The colonel's eyes narrowed.
Well, sit down and be sociable. If you're suggesting that I'm going to poison you, you're also suggesting that you know something which I don't want you to tell. Or that you have discovered one of those terrible secrets that the newspapers are all writing about. Now be a sensible man; have a drink.
The man hesitated.
You have a drink of whisky out of the same bottle, and I'll join you.
Help yourself, said the colonel good-naturedly. "Give me any glass you like."
The man went to the sideboard, poured out two pegs and sent the soda-water sizzling into the long glasses.
Here's yours and here's mine, he said; "good luck!"
He drank the whisky off, after he had seen the colonel drink his, and wiped his mouth with a gaudy handkerchief.
I'm taking it for granted, said the colonel, "that we've made no mistake and that you were listening at our door. Now we want no unpleasantness, and we'll talk about this matter as sensible human beings and man to man."
That's the way to talk, said the other, smacking his lips.
You've been sent here to watch me.
I may have and I may not have, said the other.
Pinto shifted impatiently, but the colonel stopped him with a look.
Now let me see what you are, mused the colonel, still wearing that benevolent smile of his. "You're not an ordinary tradesman. You've got a look of the book canvasser about you. I have it--you're a private detective!"
The man smirked.
Perhaps I am, said he, "and," he added, "perhaps I'm not."
The colonel slapped him on the shoulder.
Of course you are, he said confidently; "we don't see shrewd-looking fellows like you every day. You're a split!"
Not official, said the man quickly.
He had all the English private detective's fear of posing as the genuine article.
Now look here, said the colonel, "I'm going to be perfectly straight with you, and you've got to be straight with me. That's fair, isn't it?"
Quite fair, said the man; "if I've been misconducting myself in any manner----"
Don't mention it, said the colonel politely, "my friend here will apologise for handling you roughly, I'm sure; won't you, Mr. Silva?"
Sure! said the other, without any great heartiness.
He was tired of this conversation and was anxious to know where it was leading.
You're not in the private detective business for your health, said the colonel, and the man shook his head.
I bet you're working for a firm that's paying you about three pounds a week and your miserable expenses--a perfect dog's life.
You're quite right there, said the man, and he spoke with the earnestness of the ill-used wage-earner, "it is a dog's life; out in all kinds of weather, all hours of the day and night, and never so much as 'thank you' for any work you do. Why, we get no credit at all, sir. If we go into the witness-box, the lawyers treat us like dirt."
I absolutely agree with you, said the colonel, shaking his head. "I think the private detective business in this country isn't appreciated as it ought to be. And it is very curious we should have met you," he went on; "only this evening I was saying to my friends here, that we ought to get a good man to look after our interests. You've heard about me, I'm sure, Mr.----"
Snakit, said the other; "here's my card."
He produced a card from his waistcoat pocket, and the colonel read it.
Mr. Horace Snakit, he said, "of Dooby and Somes. Now what do you say to coming into our service?"
The man blinked.
I've got a good job---- he began inconsistently.
I'll give you a better--six pounds a week, regular expenses and an allowance for dressing.
It's a bet! said Mr. Snakit promptly.
Well, you can consider yourself engaged right away. Now, Mr. Snakit, as frankness is the basis of our intercourse, you will tell me straight away whether you were engaged in watching me?
I'll admit that, sir, said the man readily. "I had a job to watch you and to discover if you knew the whereabouts of a certain person."
Who engaged you?
Well---- the man hesitated. "I don't know whether it isn't betraying the confidence of a client," he waited for some encouragement to pursue the path of rectitude and honour, but received none. "Well, I'll tell you candidly, our firm has been engaged by a young lady. She brought me here to-night----"
Miss White, eh? said the colonel quickly.
Miss White it was, sir, said Snakit.
So that was why she was here? She wanted to show you----
Just where your rooms were, sir, said the man. "She also wanted to show me the back stairs by which I could get out of the building if I wanted to."
What were your general instructions?
Just to watch you, sir, and if I had an opportunity when you were out, of sneaking in and nosing round.
I see, said the colonel. "Crewe, just take Mr. Snakit downstairs and tell him where to report. Fix up his pay--you know," he gave a significant sideways jerk of his head, and Crewe escorted the gratified little detective from the apartment.
When the door had closed, the colonel turned on Silva.
Pinto, he said and there was a rumble in his voice which betrayed his anger, "that girl is dangerous. She may or may not know where her father is--this detective business may be a blind. Probably Snakit was sent here knowing that he would be captured and spill the beans."
That struck me, too, said Pinto.
She's dangerous, repeated the colonel.
He resumed his promenade up and down the room.
She's an active worker and she's working against us. Now, I'm going to settle with Miss White, he said gratingly. "I'm going to settle with her for good and all. I don't care what she knows, but she probably knows too much. She's hand in glove with the police and maybe she's working with her father. You'll get Phillopolis here to-morrow morning----"
The other's eyes opened.
Phillopolis? he almost gasped. "Good heavens! You're not going to----"
The colonel faced him squarely.
You've had your chance with the girl and you've missed it, he said. "You've tried your fancy method of courting and you've fallen down."
But I'm not going to stand for Phillopolis, said the other, with tense face. "I tell you I like the girl. There's going to be none of that----"
Oh, there isn't, isn't there? said the colonel in his silkiest tone.
Then suddenly he leaned forward across the table and his face was the face of a devil.
There's only one Boundary Gang, Pinto, and this is it, he said between his clenched white teeth, "and there's only one Dan Boundary and that's me. Do you get me, Pinto? You can go a long way with me if I happen to be going that way. But you stand in the road and you're going to get what's coming. I've been good to you, Pinto. I've stood your interference because it amused me. But you come up against me, really up against me, and by the Lord Harry! you'll know it. Did you get that?"
I've got it said Pinto sullenly.
The upbuilding of the Boundary gang had neither been an accident, nor was it exactly designed on the lines which it ultimately followed.
The main structure was Boundary himself, with his extraordinary financial genius, his plausibility, his lightning exploitation of every advantage which offered. Outwardly he was the head of three trading corporations which complied with the laws, paid small but respectable dividends and cloaked other operations which never appeared in the official records of the companies.
The sidelines of the gang came through force of circumstances. Men--good, bad and indifferent--were drawn into the orbit of its activities, as extraordinary circumstances arose or dire necessities dictated. Throughout the length and breadth of Britain, through France, Italy, and in the days before the war, and even during the war, in Germany, in Russia and in the United States, were men who, if they could not be described as agents, were at least ready tools.
He had a finger in every unsavoury pie. The bank robber discharged from gaol did not ask Colonel Boundary to finance him in the purchase of a new kit of tools--an up-to date burglar's kit costs something over two hundred pounds--but there were people who would lend the money, which eventually came out of the colonel's pocket. Some of the businesses he financed were on the border line of respectability. Some into which his money was sunk were frankly infamous. But it was a popular fiction that he knew nothing of these. Or, if he did know, that he was financing or at the back of a scoundrel, it was insisted that that scoundrel was engaged in (so far as the colonel knew) legitimate enterprise.
Paul Phillopolis was a small Greek merchant, who had an office in Mincing Court--a tiny room at the top of four flights of stairs. On the glass panel of its door was the announcement: "General Exporter."
Mr. Phillopolis spent three or four hours at his office daily and for the rest of the time, particularly towards the evening, was to be found in a _brasserie_ in Soho. He was a dark little man, with fierce moustachios and a set of perfect white teeth which he displayed readily, for he was easily amused. His most intimate acquaintances knew him to be an exporter of Greek produce to South America, and he was, in the large sense of the word, eminently respectable.
Occasionally he would be seen away from his customary haunt, discussing with a compatriot some very urgent business, which few knew about. For there were ships which cleared from the Greek ports, carrying cargoes to the order of Mr. Phillopolis, which did not appear in any bill of lading. Dazed-looking Armenian girls, girls from South Russia, from Greece, from Smyrna, en route to a promised land, looked forward to the realisation of those wonderful visions which the Greek agent had so carefully sketched.
In half a dozen South American towns the proprietors of as many dance halls would look over the new importations approvingly and remit their bank drafts to the merchant of Mincing Court. It was a profitable business, particularly in pre-war days.
The colonel departed from his usual practice and met the Greek himself, the place of meeting being a small hotel in Aldgate. Whatever other pretences the colonel made, he did not attempt to continue the fiction that he was ignorant of the Greek's trade.
Paul, he said after the first greetings were over, "I've been a good friend to you."
You have indeed, colonel, said the man gratefully.
He spoke English with a very slight accent, for he had been born and educated in London.
If ever I can render you a service----
You can, said the colonel, "but it is not going to be easy."
The Greek eyed him curiously.
Easy or hard, he said, "I'll go through with it."
The colonel nodded.
How is the business in South America? he asked suddenly.
The Greek spread out his hands in deprecation.
The war! he said tragically, "you can imagine what it has been like. All those girls waiting for music-hall engagements and impossible to ship them owing to the fleets. I must have lost thousands of pounds."
The demand hasn't slackened off, eh? asked the colonel, and the Greek smiled.
South America is full of money. They have millions--billions. Almost every other man is a millionaire. The music-halls have patrons but no talent.
The colonel smiled grimly.
There's a girl in London of exceptional ability, he said. "She has appeared in a music-hall here, and she's as beautiful as a dream."
English? asked the Greek eagerly.
Irish, which is better, said the other; "as pretty as a picture, I tell you. The men will rave about her."
The Greek looked puzzled.
Does she want to go? he asked.
The colonel snarled round at him:
Do you think I should come and ask you to book her passage if she wanted to go? he demanded. "Of course she doesn't want to go, and she doesn't know she's going. But I want her out of the way, you understand?"
Mr. Phillopolis pulled a long face.
To take her from England?
From London, said the colonel.
The Greek shook his head.
It is impossible, he said; "passports are required and unless she was willing to go it would be impossible to take her. You can't kidnap a girl and rush her out of the country except in storybooks, colonel."
Boundary interrupted him impatiently.
Don't you think I know that? he asked; "your job is, when she's in a fit state of mind, to take her across and put her somewhere where she's not coming back for a long time. Do you understand?"
I understand that part of it very well, said the Greek.
I'm not to be mixed up in it, said Boundary. "The only thing I can promise you is that she'll go quietly. I'll have her passports fixed. She'll be travelling for her health--you understand? When you get to South America I want you to take her into the interior of the country. You're not to leave her in the music-halls in one of the coast towns where English and American tourists are likely to see her."
But how are you going to----
That's my business, said the colonel. "You understand what you have to do. I'll send you the date you leave and I'll pay her passage and yours. For any out-of-pocket expenses you can send the bill to me, you understand?"
Obviously it was not a job to the liking of Phillopolis, but he had good reason to fear the colonel and acquiesced with a nod. Boundary went back to where he had left Pinto and found the Portuguese biting his finger-nails--a favourite spare-time occupation of his.
Did you fix it? he asked in a low voice.
Of course, I fixed it, said the colonel sharply.
I'm not going to have anything to do with it, said the other, and the colonel smiled.
Maybe you'll change your mind, he said significantly.
There was a knock at the door and the colonel himself answered it. He took the card from the servant's hand and read:
"Mr. STAFFORD KING, Criminal Intelligence Department.""
"He looked from the card to Pinto, then
Show him in.
The two men had not met since they had parted at the door of the North Lambeth Police Court, and there was in Colonel Boundary's smile something of forgiveness and gentle reproach.
Well, Mr. King, he said, "come in, come in, won't you?"
He offered his hand to the other, but Stafford apparently did not see it.
No malice, I trust, Mr. King? said the colonel genially. "You know my friend Mr. Silva? A business associate of mine, a director of several of my companies."
I know him all right, said Stafford and added, "I hope to know him better."
Pinto recognised the underlying sense of the words, but not a muscle of his face moved. For Stafford King the hatred with which he regarded the law lost its personal character. This man was something more than a thief-taker and a tracker of criminals. Pinto chose to regard him as the close friend of Maisie White, and as such, his rival.
And to what are we indebted for this visit? asked the bland colonel.
The chief wants to see you.
The chief?
Sir Stanley Belcom. Being the chief of our department I should have thought you had heard of him.
Sir Stanley Belcom, repeated the other; "why, of course, I know Sir Stanley by repute. May I ask what he wants to see me about? And how is my young friend--er--Miss White?" asked the colonel.
When I saw her last, replied Stafford steadily, "she was looking pretty well, so far as I could tell."
Indeed! said the colonel politely. "I have a considerable interest in the welfare of Miss White. May I ask when you saw her?
Last night, replied Stafford. "She was standing at the door of her apartments in Doughty Street, having a little talk with your friend," he nodded to Pinto, and Pinto started; "also," said the cheerful Stafford, "another mutual friend of ours, Mr. Crewe, was within hailing distance, unless I am greatly mistaken."
So you were watching, eh? burst out Pinto "I thought after the lesson you had a couple of weeks ago, you'd have----"
Let me carry on this conversation, if you don't mind, said the colonel, and the fury in his eyes silenced the Portuguese.
We have agreed to let bygones be bygones, Mr. King, and I am sure it is only his excessive zeal on my behalf that induced our friend to be so indiscreet as to refer to the unpleasant happenings--which we will allow to pass from our memories.
So the girl was being watched. That made things rather more difficult than he had imagined. Nevertheless, he anticipated no supreme obstacle to the actual abduction. His plans had been made that morning, when he saw in the columns of the daily newspaper a four-line advertisement which, to a large extent, had cleared away the greatest of his difficulties.
And if Mr. King is looking after our young friend, Maisie White, the daughter of one of our dearest business associates--why, I'm glad, he went on heartily. "London, Mr. King, is a place full of danger for young girls, particularly those who are deprived of the loving care of a parent, and one of the chief attractions, if I may be allowed to say so, which the police have for me, is the knowledge that they are the protectors of the unprotected, the guardians of the unguarded."
He made a little bow, and for all his amusement Stafford gravely acknowledged the handsome compliment which the most notorious scoundrel in London had paid the Metropolitan Police Force.
When am I to see your chief?
You can come along with me now, if you like, or you can go to-morrow morning at ten o'clock, said Stafford.
The colonel scratched his chin.
Of course, I understand that this summons is in the nature of a friendly---- he stopped questioningly.
Oh, certainly, said Stafford, his eyes twinkling, "it isn't the customary 'come-along-o'-me' demand. I think the chief wants to meet you, to discover just the kind of person you are. You will like him, I think, colonel. He is the sort of man who takes a tremendous interest in--er----"
In crime? said the colonel gently.
I was trying to think of a nice word to put in its place, admitted Stafford; "at any rate, he is interested in you."
There is no time like the present, said the colonel. "Pinto, will you find my hat?"
On the way to Scotland Yard they chatted on general subjects till Stafford asked:
Have you had another visitation from your friend?
The Jack o' Judgment? asked the colonel. "Yes, we met him the other night. He's rather amusing. By the way, have you had complaints from anywhere else?"
Stafford shook his head.
No, he seems to have specialised on you, colonel. You have certainly the monopoly of his attentions.
What is going to happen supposing he makes an appearance when I happen to have a lethal weapon ready? asked the colonel. "I have never killed a person in my life, and I hope the sad experience will not be mine. But from the police point of view, how do I stand suppose--there is an accident?"
Stafford shrugged his shoulders.
That is his look out, he said. "If you are threatened, I dare say a jury of your fellow countrymen will decide that you acted in self-defence."
He came the other night, the colonel said reminiscently, "when we were fixing up a particularly difficult--er--business negotiation."
Bad luck! said Stafford. "I suppose the mug was scared?"
The what? asked the puzzled colonel.
The mug, said Stafford. "You may not have heard the expression. It means 'can'--'fool'--'dupe.'"
The colonel drew a long breath.
You still bear malice, I see, Mr. King, he said sadly.
He entered the portals of Scotland Yard without so much as a tremor, passed up the broad stairs and along the unlovely corridors, till he came to the double doors which marked the First Commissioner's private office. Stafford disappeared for a moment and presently returned with the news that the First Commissioner would not be able to see his visitor for half an hour. Stafford apologised but the colonel was affability itself and kept up a running conversation until a beckoning secretary notified them that the great man was disengaged.
It was King who ushered the colonel into his presence. Sir Stanley was writing at a big desk and looked up as the colonel entered.
Sit down, colonel, he said, nodding his head to a chair on the opposite side of the desk. "You needn't wait, King. There are one or two things I want to speak to the colonel about."
When the door had closed behind the detective, Sir Stanley leaned back in his chair. Their eyes met, the grey and the faded blue, and for the space of a few seconds they stared. Sir Stanley Belcom was the first to drop his eyes.
I've sent for you, colonel, he said, "because I think you might give me a great deal of information, if you're willing."
Command me, said the colonel grandly.
It is on the matter of a murder which was committed in London a few months ago, said the commissioner quietly and for a moment Colonel Boundary did not speak.
I presume you are referring to the 'Snow' Gregory murder? he said at last.
Exactly, nodded the commissioner. "We have had an inquiry from America as to the identity of this young man. Now, you knew him better than anybody else in London, colonel. Can you tell me, was he an American?"
Emphatically not, said the colonel with a little sigh, as though he were relieved at the turn the conversation was taking. "I came to know him through--er--circumstances, and exactly what they were I cannot for the moment remember. I had a lot to do with him. He did odd jobs for me."
Was he well educated? asked the commissioner.
Yes, I should say he was, said the colonel slowly. "There was a story that he had been to Oxford, and that's very likely true. He spoke like a college man."
Do you know if he had any relations in England?
The commissioner eyed the other straightly and the colonel hesitated. How much does this man know? he wondered, and decided that he could do no harm if he told all the truth.
He had no relations in England, he said, "but he had a father who was abroad."
Ah, now we're getting at some facts, said the commissioner and drew a slip of paper towards him. "What was the father's name?"
The colonel shook his head.
That I can't tell you, sir, he said. "I should like to oblige you but I have no more idea of what his name was than the man in the moon. I believe he was in India, because letters from India used to come to Gregory."
Was Gregory his name?
His Christian name, I think, said the colonel after a moment's thought. "He went wrong at college and was sent down. Then he went to Paris and started to study art, and he got in trouble there, too. That's as much as he ever told me."
He had no brothers? asked the commissioner.
None, said the colonel emphatically. "I am certain of that, because he once thanked God that he was the only child."
I see, the commissioner nodded; "you have formed no theory as to why he met his death or how?"
No theory at all, said the colonel, but corrected himself. "Of course, I've had ideas and opinions, but none of them has ever worked out. So far as I know, he had no enemies, although he was a quick-tempered chap, especially when he was recovering from a dose of 'coco,' and would quarrel with his own grandmother."
You've no idea why he was in London? Apparently he did not live here.
The colonel shrugged his massive shoulders.
No, I couldn't tell you anything about that, sir, he said.
He was not an American? asked the commissioner again.
I could swear to that, answered the colonel.
There was a pause and he waited.
There's another matter. The commissioner spoke slowly. "I understand that you are being bothered by a mysterious individual who calls himself the Knave of Judgment."
Jack o' Judgment, corrected the colonel with a contemptuous smile. "Those sort of monkey tricks don't bother me, I can assure you."
I have my theories about the Jack o' Judgment, said the commissioner. "I have been looking up the circumstances of the murder, and I seem to remember that on the body was found a playing card."
That's right, said the colonel, who had remembered the fact himself many times, "the Jack of Clubs."
Do you know what that Jack of Clubs signified? asked the commissioner, but the colonel could honestly say that he did not. Its presence on the body had frequently puzzled him and he had never found a solution.
There is a certain type of ruffian to be found, particularly in Paris, who affects this sort of theatrical trade-mark--did you know that? asked the commissioner.
The colonel was suddenly stricken to silence. He did not know this fact, in spite of his extraordinary knowledge of the criminal world.
These men have their totems and their sign manuals, said the commissioner. "For example, the apache Flequier, who was executed at Nantes the other day, invariably left a domino--the double-six--near his victim."
This was news to the colonel too.
I've been giving a great deal of thought and time to this case, said the commissioner, "and I was hoping that perhaps you could help me. The most workable theory that I can suggest is that this unfortunate man was destroyed by a French criminal of the class which I have indicated, the bullying apache type, which is so common in France. Why the murder was committed," the commissioner fingered his paper-knife carelessly, "what led to it and who committed it, and more especially who instigated the crime, are matters which seem to me to defy detection. Do you agree?"
I quite agree, said the colonel, licking his dry lips.
Now I suggest to you, said the commissioner, "that your Jack o' Judgment, whoever he is, is some relation to the dead man."
He spoke slowly and emphatically and the colonel did not raise his eyes from the desk.
It is not my business to make life any easier for you, the commissioner was saying, "or to assist you in any way. But as the Jack o' Judgment seems to me to be engaged in a wholly illegal practice, and as I, in my capacity, must suppress illegal practices, I make you a present of this suggestion."
That the Jack o' Judgment is related to 'Snow' Gregory? asked the colonel huskily.
That is my suggestion, said the commissioner.
And you think----
The commissioner raised his shoulders.
I think he is your greatest danger, colonel, he said, "far greater than the police, far greater than the clever minds which are planning to bring you to the dock and possibly," he added, "to the gallows."
Ordinarily the colonel would have protested at the suggestion in the speech, protested laughingly or with dignity, but now he was stricken dumb, both by the seriousness of the commissioner's voice and by the consciousness of a new and a more terrible danger than any that had confronted him. He rose, realising that the interview was ended.
I am greatly obliged to you, Sir Stanley, he said clearing his throat. "It is good of you to warn me, but I'd not like you to think that I am engaged in any dishonest----"
We'll let that matter stand over for discussion until another time, said the commissioner dryly, as Stafford King came into the room. "You might show the colonel the way to the street. Otherwise he will be getting himself entangled in some of our detention rooms. Good morning, Colonel Boundary. Don't forget."
I'm not likely to, said the colonel.
He recovered his poise quickly enough and by the time he was in the street he was back in his old mood. But he had had a shock. That sunny afternoon was filled with shadows. The booming bells of Big Ben tolled "Jack o' Judgment," the very wheels of the taxi droned the words. And Colonel Boundary came back to Albemarle Place for the first time in his life with his confidence in Colonel Boundary shaken.
There was nobody in save the one manservant he kept by the day, and he passed into the dining-room overlooking the street. He had work to do and it had to be done quickly. In one of the walls was set a stout safe, and this he opened, taking from it a steel box which he carried to the table. There was a fire laid on the hearth and to this he put a match though the day was warm enough. Then he proceeded to unlock the box. Apparently it was empty, but, taking out his scarf-pin, he inserted the point in a tiny hole, which would have escaped casual observation, and pressed.
Half the steel bottom of the box leapt up, disclosing a shallow cavity beneath. The colonel stared. There had been two letters put in there, letters which he had put away against the moment when it might be necessary to bring a recalcitrant agent to heel. They had gone. He slid his fingers beneath the half of the bottom which had not opened and felt a card. He drew this out and looked at it, licking his lips the while.
For the space of a minute he stared and stared at the Knave of Clubs he held in his hand. A Knave of Clubs signed with a flourish across its face: "Jack o' Judgment." Then he flung the card into the fire and, walking to the sideboard, splashed whisky into a tumbler with a hand that shook.
The building in which Colonel Boundary had his beautiful home was of a type not uncommonly met with in the West End of London. The street floor was taken up entirely with shops, the first floor with offices and the remainder of the building was practically given over to the colonel. One by one he had ousted every tenant from the building, and practically the whole of the fourteen sets of apartments which constituted the residential portion of the building was held by him in one name or another. Some he had obtained by the payment of heavy premiums, some he had secured when the lease of the former tenant had lapsed, some he had gathered in by sub-hiring. He had tried to buy the building, since it served his purpose well, but came against a deed of trust and the Court of Chancery, and had wisely refrained from going any further into a matter which must bring him vis-a-vis with a Master in Chancery, with all the publicity which such a transaction entailed.
Nor had he been successful in acquiring any of the premises on the first floor. They were held by three very old established businesses--an estate agent, a firm of land surveyors and the offices of a valuer. He missed his opportunity, at any rate, of securing the business of Lee and Hol, the surveyors, and did not know it was in the market until after it had been transferred to a new owner. But they were quiet, sober tenants, who closed their offices between five and six every night and did not open them until between nine or ten on the following morning, and their very respectability gave him a certain privacy.
The new proprietor of Lee and Hol was a short-sighted, elderly man of no great conversational power, and apparently of no fixed purpose in life except to say "no" to the very handsome offers which the colonel's agents made when they discovered there was a chance of re-purchasing the business. Boundary had personally inspected all the offices. He had found an excuse to visit them several times, duly noted the arrangement of the furniture, the sizes of the staffs and the general character of the business which was being carried on. This was a necessary precaution because these offices were immediately under his own flat. But just now they had a special value, because it was a practice during the daytime for the three firms to employ a commissionaire, who occupied a little glass-partitioned office on the landing and attended impartially to the needs of all three tenants to the best of his ability.
Boundary descended the stairs and found the elderly man in his office, leisurely and laboriously affixing stamps to a pile of letters. He called him from his task.
Judson, he said, "have you seen anybody go up to my rooms this afternoon?"
The man thought.
No, sir, I haven't, he replied.
Have you been here all the time?
Yes, since one o'clock I have been in my office, said the commissionaire. "None of our young gentlemen wanted anything."
You didn't go out to go to the post?
No, sir, said the man. "I've not stirred from this office except for one minute when I went into Mr. Lee's office to get these letters."
And you've seen nobody go upstairs?
Not since Mr. Silva came down, sir. He came down after you, if you remember.
Nobody's been up? insisted the other.
Not a soul. Your servant came down before you, sir.
That's true, said the colonel remembering that he had sent the man on a special journey to Huddersfield with a letter to the bigamous Mr. Crotin. "You haven't seen a lady go up at all?" he asked suddenly.
Nobody has gone up them stairs, said the commissionaire emphatically. "I hope you haven't lost anything, sir?"
The colonel shook his head.
No, I haven't lost anything. Rather, I've found something, he said grimly.
He slipped half-a crown into the man's hand.
You needn't mention the fact that I've been making inquiries, he said and went slowly up the stairs again.
The card had been put there that day. He would swear it. The ink on the card had not had time to darken and when he made a further search of his room, this view was confirmed by the appearance of his blotting-pad. The card had been dried there, and the pen, which had been left on the table, was still damp.
The colonel passed into his bedroom and took off his coat and vest. He searched his drawer and found what looked to be like a pair of braces made of light fabric. These he slipped over his shoulder, adjusting them so that beneath his left arm hung a canvas holster. From another drawer he took an automatic pistol, pulled the magazine from the butt and examined it before he returned it, and forced a cartridge into the breach by drawing back the cover. This he carefully oiled, and then, pressing up the safety catch, he slipped the pistol into the holster and resumed his coat and vest.
It was a long time since the colonel had carried a gun under his arm, but his old efficiency was unimpaired. He practised before a mirror and was satisfied with his celerity. He loaded a spare magazine, and dropped it into the capacious pocket of his waistcoat. Then, putting the remainder of the cartridges away tidily, he closed the box, shut the drawer and went back to his room. If all the commissioner had hinted were true, if this mysterious visitor was laying for him because of the 'Snow' Gregory affair, he should have what was coming to him.
The colonel was no coward and if this eerie experience had got a little on his nerves, it was not to be wondered at. He drew up a chair to the table, sitting in such a position that he could see the door, took a pencil and a sheet of paper and began to write rapidly.
The man's knowledge was encyclopaedic. Not once did he pause or refer to a catalogue, and he was still writing when Crewe came in. The colonel looked up.
You're the man I want, he said.
He handed the other three sheets of paper, closely covered with writing.
What's this? asked Crewe and read:
Twenty-three iron bedsteads, twenty-three mattresses, twenty-three----
Why, what's all this, colonel?
You can go down to Tottenham Court Road and you can order all that furniture to be taken into No. 3, Washburn Avenue.
Are you furnishing a children's orphanage or something? asked the other in surprise.
I am furnishing a nursing home, to be exact, said the colonel slowly. "I bought it this morning, and I'm going to furnish it to-morrow. Send Lollie Marsh to me. Tell her I want her to get three women of the right sort to take charge of a mental case which is coming to my nursing home. By the way, you had better telegraph to old Boyton, or better still, go in a cab and get him. He'll probably be drunk but he's still on the medical register and he's the man I want. Take him straight away to Washburn Avenue, and don't forget that it's his nursing home and not mine. My name doesn't occur in this matter and you'd better get a dummy to do the buying for you from the furniture people."
Who is the mental case? asked the other.
Maisie White, snapped the colonel, and Crewe stared.
Mad? he said incredulously. "Is Maisie mad?"
She may not be at present, said Boundary, "but----"
He did not finish his sentence, and Crewe, who was once a gentleman and was now a thief, swallowed something--but he had swallowed too much to choke at the threat to a girl in whom he had not the slightest interest.
Maisie White had no illusions. When the report came to her that the detective she had employed had passed his services over to the man he was engaged to watch, she knew that the full force of the Boundary Gang would be employed to her extinction. Strangely enough, she did not appear to be disturbed, as she confessed to Stafford King. They were lunching together at the Hotel Palatine and the detective was unusually thoughtful.
Why don't you go out of London? he asked.
I must go on with my work, she said.
What is your work? he asked.
I have told you once, she replied. "I am trying to disentangle my father from disgrace. I am working to put him apart when the day of reckoning comes."
You've not heard from him? he asked.
She shook her head, and her eyes filled with tears.
He has been a good father to me, she said, "the kindest and best of daddies. It is dreadful to think----" her lips quivered and she could go no further.
Nor could Stafford King make matters any easier for her. He knew better than she the depth of Solomon White's commitments. If the gang ever smashed, and if by good fortune the law ever took its course, there was no hope for Solomon White's escape from his share of the responsibility.
Why do you think your father went away? he asked, to turn the subject to a new aspect.
She did not reply instantly.
I think he was scared, she said after a while. "I was shocked when I discovered how much in awe of the colonel he stood. He was just terrified at the threat, and yet I know he would have given his life to protect me from harm. I think it was just I that spurred him on to make the plans he did."
Stafford King agreed with a gesture.
Now what are we going to do about you? he asked, half-humorously, half-seriously. "I cannot let you go wandering loose about London--I'm scared to death as it is."
She smiled at him.
You had better lock me up, she said flippantly and he nodded in the same spirit.
I know a little house in St. John's Wood that would serve us beautifully as a prison, he said. "It has ten rooms and two admirable bathrooms. There is central heating and a large shady garden, and if you will only let me take you before a Justice of the Peace, or even a commonplace clergyman----"
She shook her head.
That isn't prison, she said quietly and put her hand over the table.
He caught it in his and held it tight.
Maisie, he said, "you know I love you. I love you more dearly than anything in the world."
She did not speak.
As my wife, he went on, "you would be safe and I should be happy. I just want you all the time."
Gently she disengaged her hand, shaking her head with a little smile.
What would that mean, Stafford? she said. "You know you are deceiving me when you agree that my father----" again her voice shook--"no, no," she said, "it would ruin your career to have the daughter of a convict for your wife. I realise very well what it will mean, for I know--I know--I know!"
What do you know? he asked in a low voice.
I know that all my work will be in vain. But I must go on with it. I must, or I shall go mad. I know nothing on earth can clear my father, but I'm not going to tell you that again. I just want to think there is a possibility that some miracle will happen, that all the evidence which even I have against him will be explained away.
He took her unresisting hand in his, and under the cover of the tablecloth held it tight.
That is why I wanted to leave the service, he said, and she looked at him quickly.
Because you thought that it would mean ruin?
He smiled.
No, not that. It would hurt you, that is all. Of course, if such a thing happened I would be obliged to resign.
And you'd never forgive yourself.
I wanted to anticipate such a happening, and, darling, you've got to face the future without any other illusions.
She winced at the word "other" but he went on, unnoticing:
Boundary is a tiger. If he thinks there is reason to fear you, he will never let up on you till he has you in his grip. I tell you this, he said earnestly, "that for all the power of the police, for all their organisation and the backing which the law gives them, they may be helpless against this man if he has marked you down for punishment."
I'm not afraid, she said quietly.
But I am, said he. "I'm so afraid, that I'm sick with apprehension sometimes."
Poor Stafford! she said softly, and there was a look in her eyes which compensated him for much. "But you mustn't worry, dear. Truly, truly, you mustn't worry. I'm quite capable of looking after myself."
And that's the greatest of all your illusions, he said, half-laughingly and half-irritably. "You're just the meekest little mouse that ever came under the paw of a cat."
She shook her head smilingly.
But I tell you I'm speaking seriously, he went on. "I'll do my best to look after you. I'll have a man watching you day and night."
But you mustn't, she protested. "There's no immediate cause for worry."
He saw her to the door of the restaurant and showed her into the taxi-cab which came at his whistle, and she leant out of the window and waved her hand in farewell as she drove off.
Two men stood on the opposite side of the road and watched her depart.
That's the girl, said Crewe.
A week passed without anything exceptional happening, and Maisie White had ceased even to harbour doubts as to her own safety--doubts which had been present, in spite of the courageous showing she had made before Stafford King. Undeterred by her previous experience, she had made arrangements with another and a more responsible detective agency and had chosen a new watcher, though she had small hopes of obtaining results. She knew his task was one of almost insuperable difficulty, and she was frank in exposing to him what those difficulties were. Still, there was a faint chance that he might discover something, and moreover she had another purpose to serve.
She had seen Pinto Silva once. He had called, and she had noticed with surprise that the debonair, self-confident man she had known, whose air of conscious superiority had been so annoying to her, had undergone a considerable change. He was ill-at-ease, almost incoherent at moments, and it was a long time before she could discover his business.
This time she received him in her tiny sitting-room, for Pinto was somehow less alarming to her than he had been. Perhaps she was conscious that at the corner of the street stood a quietly dressed man doing nothing particular, who was relieved at the eighth hour by an even less obtrusive-looking gentleman from Scotland Yard.
She waited for Pinto to disclose his business, and the Portuguese was apparently in no hurry to do so. Presently he blurted it out.
Look here, Maisie, he said, "you've got things all wrong. Things are going to be very rotten for you unless--unless----" he floundered.
Unless what? she asked.
Unless you make up with me, he said in a low voice. "I'm not so bad, Maisie, and I'll treat you fair. I've always been in love with you----"
Stop, she said quietly. "I dare say it is a great honour for a girl that any man should be in love with her, but it takes away a little of the compliment when the man is already married."
That's nothing, he said eagerly. "I can divorce her by the laws of my country. Maisie, she hates me and I hate her."
In those circumstances, she smiled, "I wonder you wait until you fall in love again before you get divorced. No, Mr. Silva, that story doesn't convince me. If you were single or divorced, or if you were ever so eligible, I would not marry you."
Why not? he demanded truculently. "I've got money."
So have I, she said, "of a sort."
My money's as clean as yours, if it is Solomon White's money.
She nodded.
I'm well aware of that, too, she said. "It is Gang money, isn't it--loot money. I don't see what good I shall get out of exchanging mine for yours, anyway. It is just as dirty. The money doesn't come into it at all, Mr. Silva, it is just liking people well enough--for marriage. And I don't like you that way."
You don't like me at all, he growled.
You're very nearly right, she smiled.
You're a fool, you're a fool! he stormed, "you don't know what's coming to you. You don't know."
Perhaps I do, she said. "Perhaps I can guess. But whatever is coming to me, as you put it, I prefer that to marrying you."
He started back as though she had struck him across the face, and he turned livid.
You won't say that when----
He checked himself and without another word left the room, and she heard his heavy feet blundering down the stairs.
And then she met him again. It was two nights after. She met him in a horrible dream. She dreamt he was flying after her, that they were both birds, she a pigeon and he a hawk; and as she made her last desperate struggle to escape, she heard his hateful voice in her ear:
Maisie, Maisie, it is your last chance, your last chance!
She had gone to bed at ten o'clock that night, and it seemed that she had hardly fallen asleep before the vision came. She struggled to sit up in bed, she tried to speak, but a big hand was over her mouth.
Then it was true, it was no dream. He was in the room, his hand upon her mouth, his voice in her ear. The room was in darkness. There was no sound save the sound of his heavy breathing and his voice.
They'll be up here in five minutes, he whispered. "I can save you from hell! I can save you, Maisie! Will you have me?"
She summoned all the strength at her command to shake her head.
Then keep quiet!
There was a note of savagery in his voice which made her turn sick.
For a second she filled her lungs to scream, but at that instant a mass of cotton-wool was thrust over her face, and she began to breathe in a sickly sweet vapour. Somebody else was in the room now. They were holding her feet. The voice in her ear said:
Breathe. Take a deep breath!
She sobbed and writhed in an agony of mind, but all the time she was breathing, she was drawing into her lungs the chloroform with which the wool was saturated.
At two o'clock in the morning a uniformed constable, patrolling his beat, saw an ambulance drawn up outside a house in Doughty Street. He crossed the road to make inquiries.
A case of scarlet fever, said the driver.
You don't say, said the sympathetic constable.
The door opened and two men walked out, carrying a figure in a blanket. The policeman stood by and saw the "patient" laid upon a stretcher and the back of the ambulance closed. Then he continued his walk to the corner of the street, where he found, huddled up in a doorway, the unconscious figure of a Scotland Yard detective, whose observation had been interrupted by a well-directed blow from a life preserver.
To all stations. Stop Ambulance Motor No. LKO 9943. Arrest and detain driver and any person found therein. Warn all garages and report.--COMMISSIONER.
This order flashed from station to station throughout the night, and before the dawn, nine thousand policemen were on the look-out for the motor ambulance.
There's a chance, of course, said Stafford, "but it is a poor chance."
He was looking white and heavy-eyed.
I don't know, sir, said Southwick, his subordinate. "There's always a chance that a crook will do the obviously wrong thing. I suppose you've no theory as to where they have gone?"
Not out of town--of that I'm certain, said King, "that is why the quest is so hopeless. Why, they'll have got to their destination hours before the message went out!"
They were standing in the girl's bedroom, which still reeked with chloroform, and all the clues were piled together on the table. There were not many. There was a pad of cotton-wool, a half-empty bottle of chloroform, bearing the label of a well-known wholesaler, and one of a pair of old wash-leather gloves, which had evidently been worn by somebody in his desire to avoid leaving finger-prints.
We've not much to go on there, said Stafford disconsolately; "the chloroform may have been sold years ago. Any chemist would have supplied the cotton-wool, and as for the glove"--he picked it up and looked at it carefully, then he carried it to the light.
Old as it was, it was of good shape and quality, and when new had probably been supplied to order by a first-class glove-maker.
There's nothing here, said Stafford again, and threw the glove back on the table.
A policeman came into the room and saluted.
I've cycled over from the Yard, sir. We have had a message asking you to go at once to Sir Stanley Belcom's private house.
How did Sir Stanley know about this affair? asked Stafford listlessly.
He telephoned through, sir, about five o'clock this morning. He often makes an early inquiry.
Stafford looked round. There was nothing more that he could do. He passed down the stairs into the street and jumped on to the motor-cycle which had brought him to the scene.
Sir Stanley Belcom lived in Cavendish Place, and Stafford had been a frequent visitor to the house. Sir Stanley was a childless widower, who was wont to complain that he kept up his huge establishment in order to justify the employment of his huge staff of servants. Stafford suspected him of being something of a sybarite. His dinners were famous, his cellar was one of the best in London and because of his acquaintances and friendships in the artistic sets, he was something of a dabbler in the arts he patronised.
The door was opened and an uncomfortable-looking butler was waiting on the step to receive Stafford.
You'll find Sir Stanley in the library, sir, he said.
Despite his sorrow, Stafford could not help smiling at this attempt on the part of an English servant to offer the conventional greeting in spite of the hour.
I'm afraid we've got you up early, Perkins, he said.
Not at all, sir.
The man's stout face creased in a smile.
Sir Stanley's a rare gentleman for getting up in the middle of the night and ordering a meal.
Stafford found his grey-haired chief, arrayed in a flowered silk dressing-gown, balancing bread on an electric toaster.
Bad news, eh, Stafford? he said. "Sit down and have some coffee. The girl is gone?"
Stafford nodded.
And our unfortunate detective-constable, who was sent to watch, is half-way to the mortuary, I presume?
Not so bad as that, sir, said Stafford, "but he's got a pretty bad crack. He's recovered consciousness but remembers nothing that happened."
Sir Stanley nodded.
Very scientifically done, he said admiringly. "This, of course, is the work of the Boundary Gang."
I wish---- began Stafford between his teeth.
Save your breath, my friend, smiled Sir Stanley; "wishing will do nothing. You could arrest every known member of the gang, and they'd have twenty alibis ready, and jolly good alibis too. It is years since the colonel staged an outrage of this kind and his right hand has not lost its cunning. Look at the organisation of it! The men get into the house without attracting the attention of your watcher. Then, at the exact second that the ambulance is due, along comes their 'cosher,' knocks down the policeman on duty. I don't suppose the thing took more than ten minutes. Everything was timed. They must have known the hour the policeman on the beat passed along the street."
Sir Stanley poured out the coffee with his own hands, and relapsed back into his armchair.
Why do you think they did it?
They were afraid of her, sir, said Stafford.
Sir Stanley laughed softly.
I can't imagine Boundary being afraid of a girl.
She was Solly White's daughter, said Stafford.
Even then I can't understand it, replied the chief, "unless--by jove! Of course."
He hit his knee a smack and Stafford waited.
Probably they've got some other game on, but I'll tell you one of the ideas of taking that girl--it is to bring back Solomon White. He disappeared, didn't he?
Stafford nodded.
That's the game--to bring back Solomon White. And whatever the danger to himself, he'll be in London to-morrow as soon as this news is known.
Sir Stanley sat thinking, with his chin in his hand, his forehead wrinkled.
There's some other reason, too. Now, what is it?
Stafford guessed, but did not say.
That girl will take some recovering before harm comes to her, said Sir Stanley softly, "your only hope is that friend Jack comes to your rescue."
Jack o' Judgment?
Sir Stanley nodded and the other smiled sadly.
That's unlikely, he said; "indeed, it is impossible. I think I might as well tell you my own theory as to why she was taken and why Boundary took so much trouble to capture her."
What is your theory? asked Sir Stanley curiously.
My theory, sir, is that she is Jack o' Judgment, said Stafford King.
She--Jack o' Judgment?
Sir Stanley was on his feet staring at him.
Impossible! It is a man----
You seem to forget, sir, said Stafford, "that Miss White is a wonderful mimic."
But why?
She wants to clear her father. She told me that only a week ago. And then I've been making inquiries on my own. I found that she was seen coming out of the Albemarle mansion, the night that Jack made his last visit to Boundary's flat.
Sir Stanley rose.
Wait, he said and left the room.
Presently he came back with something in his hand.
If Miss White is Jack o' Judgment, and if she were captured to-night, how do you account for this? it was under my pillow when I woke up.
He laid on the table the familiar Jack of Clubs.
Colonel Boundary had a breakfast party of three. Though he had been up the whole of the night, he showed no signs of weariness. Not so Pinto or Crewe, who looked fagged out and all the more tired because they were both conspicuously unshaven.
Half the game's won, said the colonel. "We'll get rid of this girl and Solly White by the same stroke. I'm afraid of Solly, he knows too much. By the way, Raoul is coming over."
Raoul! said Crewe, sitting up suddenly, "why, colonel, you're mad! Didn't the Scotland Yard man tell you----"
That he suspected a French hand in the case of 'Snow' Gregory? All the more reason why Raoul should come, said the colonel calmly; "he ought to report this morning."
You're taking a risk, growled Pinto.
Nothing unusual, replied the colonel, shelling a plover's egg. "It is the last thing in the world they would suspect at Scotland Yard after their warning, that I should bring Raoul over again. Besides, they don't know him anyway. He's just a harmless young French cabinet-maker. He doesn't talk and I will get him out of the silly habit of leaving his visiting-card."
There was a silence, which Crewe broke.
You want him for----
He did not finish the sentence.
For work, replied the colonel. "It is a thousand pities, but it would be a thousand times more so if you and I were jugged, and waiting in the condemned cell for the arrival of Mr. Ellis, the eminent hangman. Raoul's a workman. We can trust him. He doesn't try any funny business. He lives out of this country and I can cover his tracks. Besides," the colonel went on, "I shall give him enough to live in comfort for the next two years. Raoul is a grateful little beast, and thank God! he can neither read nor write."
I don't like it, said Crewe. "I hate that kind of thing. Why not give Solly a chance? Why not get up a fight--a duel, anything but cold-blooded murder?"
The colonel turned his cold eyes upon the other, and his lips parted in a mirthless smile.
You're speaking up to your character now, aren't you, Crewe? he said unpleasantly. "You're 'Gentleman Crewe' once again, eh? Want to do everything in the public school fashion? Well, you can cut out all that stuff and feed it to the pigs. I'm Dan Boundary, looking forward to a pleasant old age. There's nothing of the Knights of the Round Table about me."
Crewe flushed.
All right, he said, "have it your own way."
You bet your life I'm going to have it my own way, said the colonel. "Have you seen the girl this morning, Pinto?"
Pinto shook his head.
You'll keep away from there for a couple of days. I've got Boyton on the spot and he'll be feeding her with bromide till she won't care whether she's in hell or Wigan. Besides, we'll all be shadowed for the next day or two, make no mistake about that. Stafford King won't let the grass grow under his feet. And now, you chaps, go home and try to look as though you've had a night's rest.
After their departure the colonel made his own preparations. There were Turkish baths in Westminster and it was to the Turkish baths he went. Clad in a towel, he passed from hot room to hot room, and finally came to the big, vaulted saloon, tiled from floor to roof, where in canvas-backed chairs the bathers doze and read. The colonel lay back in his chair, his eyes closed, apparently oblivious to his surroundings. Nor was it to be observed that he saw the thin little man who came and sat beside him. The new-comer was sallow-skinned and lantern-jawed, and his long arms were tattooed from shoulder to wrist.
Here! said a soft voice in French.
The colonel did not open his eyes. He merely dropped the palm fan which he was idly waving to and fro so that it hid his mouth.
Do you remember a Monsieur White? he said in the same tone.
Perfectly, replied the other. "He was the man who would not have your little 'coco' friend--disposed of."
That is the man, said the other. "You have a good memory, Raoul."
Monsieur, my memory is wonderful, but alas! one cannot live on memory, he added sententiously.
Then remember this: there is a place near London called Putney Heath.
Putney Heath, repeated the other.
There is a house called Bishopsholme.
Bishopsholme, repeated the other.
It is empty--to let, _a louer_, you understand. It is in a sad state of desolation. The garden, the house--you know the kind of place?
Perfectly, monsieur.
At nine o'clock to-night and at nine o'clock to-morrow night you will be near the door. There is a large clump of bushes, behind which you will stand. You will stay there until ten. Between those hours M. White will approach and go into the house. You understand?
Perfectly, monsieur, said the voice again.
You will shoot him so that he dies immediately.
He is a dead man, said the other.
There was a long pause.
I will pay you sixty thousand francs, and I will have a motor-car to take you direct to Dover. You will catch the night boat for Ostend. Your passport will be in order, and you can make your way to Paris at your leisure. The payment you will receive in Paris. Is that satisfactory?
Eminently so, monsieur, said the other. "I need a little for expenses for the moment. Also I wish information as to where the motor-car will meet me."
It will be waiting for you at the corner of the first road past the house, on the way from London. You will not speak to the chauffeur and he will not speak to you. In the car you will find sufficient money for your immediate needs. Is there any necessity to explain further?
None whatever, monsieur, said the soft voice, and Raoul dropped his head on one side as though he were sleeping.
As for the colonel, he did not simulate slumber, but passed into dreamland, sleeping quietly and calmly, with a look of benevolence upon his big face.
The only other occupant of the cooling room, a big-framed man who was reading a newspaper, closed his eyes too--but he did not sleep.