CHAPTER XX
AMINUTE later Ella came to the door to call them.
“Was that a car went past?” she asked, and they detected a note of anxiety in her tone.
“Yes,” said Elk, “it was a big car. Didn’t see who was in it, but it was a big car.”
Dick heard her sigh of relief.
“Will you come in, please?” she said. “Breakfast is waiting for you.”
They left half an hour later, and each man was so busy with his own thoughts that Dick did not speak until they were passing the villas where the body of Genter had been found. It was near Horsham that Genter was killed, he remembered with a little shudder. Outside of Horsham he himself had seen the dead man’s feet extended beyond the back of a motor-van. Hagn should die for that; whether he was Frog or not, he was party to that murder. As if reading his thoughts, Elk turned to him and said:
“Do you think your evidence is strong enough to hang Hagn?”
“I was wondering,” said Dick. “There is no supporting evidence, unfortunately, but the car which you have under lock and key, and the fact that the garage keeper may be able to identify him.”
“With his beard?” asked Elk significantly. “There is going to be some difficulty in securing a conviction against this Frog, believe me, Captain Gordon. And unless old Balder induces him to make a statement, we shall have all the difficulty in the world in convincing a jury. Personally,” he added, “if I was condemned to spend a night with Balder, I should tell the truth, if it was only to get rid of him. He’s a pretty clever fellow, is Balder. People don’t realize that—he has the makings of a first-class detective, if we could only get him to take a happier view of life.”
He directed the driver to go straight to the door of Cannon Row.
Dick’s mind was on another matter.
“What did she want with Maitland?” he asked.
Elk shook his head.
“I don’t know,” he confessed. “Of course, she might have been persuading him to take back her brother, but old Maitland isn’t the kind of adventurer who’d get up in the middle of the night to discuss giving Ray Bennett his job back. If he was a younger man, yes. But he’s not young. He’s darned old. And he’s a wicked old man, who doesn’t care two cents whether Ray Bennett is working at his desk for so much per, or whether he’s breaking stones on Dartmoor. I tell you, that’s one of the minor mysteries which will be cleared up when we get the Frog piece in its place.”
The car stopped at the entrance of Cannon Row police-station, and the men jumped down. The desk sergeant stood up as they came in, and eyed them wonderingly.
“I’m going to take Balder out, sergeant.”
“Balder?” said the man in surprise. “I didn’t know Balder was in.”
“I put him in with Hagn.”
A light dawned upon the station official.
“That’s queer. I didn’t know it was Balder,” he said. “I wasn’t on duty when he came in, but the other sergeant told me that a man had been put in with Hagn. Here is the gaoler.”
That official came in at that moment, and was as astonished as the sergeant to learn the identity of the second prisoner.
“I had no idea it was Balder, sir,” he said. “That accounts for the long talk they had—they were talking up till one o’clock.”
“Are they still talking?” asked Elk.
“No, sir, they’re sleeping now. I had a look at them a little time ago—you remember you gave me orders to leave them alone and not to go near them.”
Dick Gordon and his subordinate followed the gaoler down a long passage faced with glazed brick, the wall of which was studded at intervals by narrow black doors. Reaching the end of the corridor, they turned at right angles. The second passage had only one door, and that was at the end. Snapping back the lock, the gaoler threw open the door, and Elk went in.
Elk went to the first of the figures and pulled aside the blanket which covered the face. Then, with an oath, he drew the blanket clear.
It was Balder, and he was lying on his back, covered from head to foot with a blanket. A silk scarf was twisted round his mouth; his wrists were not only handcuffed but strapped, as were his legs.
Elk dashed at the second figure, but as he touched the blanket, it sank under his hands. A folded coat, to give resemblance to a human figure, a pair of battered shoes, placed artificially at the end of the blanket—these were all. Hagn had disappeared!
When they got the man into Elk’s office, and had given him brandy, and Elk, by sheer bullying, had reduced him to coherence, Balder told his story.
“I think it was round about two o’clock when it happened,” he said. “I’d been talking all the evening to this Hagn, though it was very clear to me, with my experience, that he spotted me the moment I came in, as a police officer, and was kidding me along all the evening. Still, I persevered, Mr. Elk. I’m the sort of man that never says die. That’s the peculiar thing about me——”
“The peculiar thing about you,” said Elk wearily, “is your passionate admiration of Balder. Get on!”
“Anyway, I did try,” said Balder in an injured voice; “and I thought I’d got over his suspicion, because he began talking about Frogs, and telling me that there was going to be a wireless call to all the heads to-night—that is, last night. He told me that Number Seven would never be captured, because he was too clever. He asked me how Mills had been killed, but I’m perfectly sure, the way he put the question, that he knew. We didn’t talk very much after one, and at a quarter-past one I lay down, and I must have gone to sleep almost at once. The first thing I knew was that they were putting a gag in my mouth. I tried to struggle, but they held me——”
“They?” said Elk. “How many were there?”
“There may have been two or three—I’m not certain,” said Balder. “If it had been only two, I think I could have managed, for I am naturally strong. There must have been more. I only saw two besides Hagn.”
“Was the cell door open?”
“Yes, sir, it was ajar,” said Balder after he had considered a moment.
“What did they look like?”
“They were wearing long black overcoats, but they made no attempt to hide their faces. I should know them anywhere. They were young men—at least, one was. What happened after that I don’t know. They put a strap round my legs, pulled the blanket over me, and that’s all I saw or heard until the cell door closed. I have been lying there all night, sir, thinking of my wife and children . . .”
Elk cut him short, and, leaving the man in charge of another police clerk, he went across to make a more careful examination of the cell. The two passages were shaped like a capital L, the special cell being at the end of the shorter branch. At the elbow was a barred door leading into the courtyard, where men waiting trial were loaded into the prison-van and distributed to various places of detention. The warder sat at the top of the L, in a small glass-panelled cubby-hole, where the cell indicators were. Each cell was equipped with a bell-push in case of illness, and the signals showed in this tiny office. From where he sat, the warder commanded, not only a view of the passage, but a side view of the door. Questioned, he admitted that he had been twice into the charge-room for a few minutes at a time; once when a man arrested for drunkenness had demanded to see a doctor, and another time, about half-past two in the morning, to take over a burglar who had been captured in the course of the night.
“And, of course, it was during that time that the men got away,” said Elk.
The door into the courtyard was locked but not bolted. It could be opened from either side. The cell door could also open from both sides. In this respect it differed from every other cell in the station; but the explanation was that it was frequently used for important prisoners, whom it was necessary to subject to lengthy interrogations; and the lock had been chosen to give the police officers who were inside an opportunity of leaving the cell when they desired, without calling for the gaoler. The lock had not been picked, neither had the lock of the yard door.
Elk sent immediately for the policemen who were on duty at either entrance of Scotland Yard. The officer who was on guard at the Embankment entrance had seen nobody. The man at the Whitehall opening remembered seeing an inspector of police pass out at half-past two. He was perfectly sure the officer was an inspector, because he wore the hanging sword-belt, and the policeman had seen the star on his shoulder and had saluted him—a salute which the officer had returned.
“This may or may not be one of them,” said Elk. “If it is, what happened to the other two?”
But here evidence failed. The men had disappeared as though they had dissipated into air.
“We’re going to get a roasting for this, Captain Gordon,” said Elk; “and if we escape without being scorched, we’re lucky. Fortunately, nobody but ourselves knows that Hagn has been arrested; and when I say ‘ourselves,’ I wish I meant it! You had better go home and go to bed; I had some sleep in the night. If you’ll wait while I send this bleating clerk of mine home to his well-advertised wife and family, I’ll walk home with you.”
Dick was waiting on the edge of Whitehall when Elk joined him.
“There will be a departmental inquiry, of course. We can’t help that,” he said. “The only thing that worries me is that I’ve got poor old Balder into bad odour, and I was trying to put him right. I don’t know what the experience of the Boy Scouts is,” he went off at a tangent, “but my own is that the worst service you can render to any man is to try to do him a good turn.”
It was now nearly ten o’clock, and Dick was feeling faint with hunger and lack of sleep, for he had eaten nothing at Horsham. Once or twice, as they walked toward Harley Terrace, Elk looked back over his shoulder.
“Expecting anybody?” asked Dick, suddenly alive to the possibility of danger.
“No-o, not exactly,” said Elk. “But I’ve got a hunch that we’re being followed.”
“I saw a man just now who I thought was following us,” said Dick, “a man in a fawn raincoat.”
“Oh, him?” said Elk, indifferent alike to the rules of grammar and the presence of his shadow. “That is one of my men. There’s another on the other side of the road. I’m not thinking of them, my mind for the moment being fixed on Frogs. Do you mind if we cross the road?” he asked hurriedly, and, without waiting for a reply, caught Gordon’s arm and led him across the broad thoroughfare. “I always object to walking on the same side of a street as the traffic runs. I like to meet traffic; it’s not good to be overtaken. I thought so!”
A small Ford van, painted with the name of a laundry, which had been crawling along behind them, suddenly spurted and went ahead at top speed. Elk followed the car with his eyes until it reached the Trafalgar Square end of Whitehall. Instead of branching left toward Pall Mall or right to the Strand, the van swung round in a half-circle and came back to meet them. Elk half turned and made a signal.
“This is where we follow the example of the chicken,” said Elk, and made another hurried crossing.
When they reached the pavement he looked round. The detectives who were following him had understood his signal, and one had leaped on the running-board of the van, which was pulled up to the pavement. There was a few minutes’ talk between the driver and the officer, and then they all drove off together.
“Pinched,” said Elk laconically. “He’ll take him to the station on some charge or other and hold him. I guessed he’d see what I was after—my man, I mean. The easiest way to shadow is to shadow in a trade truck,” said Elk. “A trade van can do anything it likes; it can loiter by the pavement, it can turn round and go back, it can go fast or slow, and nobody takes the slightest notice. If that had been a limousine, it would have attracted the attention of every policeman by drawling along by the pavement, so as to overtake us just at the right minute. Probably it wasn’t any more than a shadow, but to me,” he said with a quiver of his shoulder, “it felt rather like sudden death!”
Whether Elk’s cheerfulness was assumed or natural, he succeeded in impressing his companion.
“Let’s take a cab,” said Dick, and such was his doubt that he waited for three empty taxis to pass before he hailed the fourth. “Come in,” said Dick when the cab dropped them at Harley Terrace. “I’ve got a spare room if you want to sleep.”
Elk shook his head to the latter suggestion, but accompanied Gordon into the house. The man who opened the door had evidently something to say.
“There’s a gentleman waiting to see you, sir. He’s been here for half an hour.”
“What is his name?”
“Mr. Johnson, sir.”
“Johnson?” said Dick in surprise, and hurried to the dining-room, into which the visitor had been ushered.
It was, indeed, “the philosopher,” though Mr. Johnson lacked for the moment evidence of that equilibrium which is the chiefest of his possessions. The stout man was worried; his face was unusually long; and when Dick went into the room, he was sitting uncomfortably on the edge of a chair, as he had seen him sitting at Heron’s Club, his gloomy eyes fixed upon the carpet.
“I hope you’ll forgive me for coming to see you, Captain Gordon,” he said. “I’ve really no right to bring my troubles to you.”
“I hope your troubles aren’t as pressing as mine,” smiled Dick as he shook hands. “You know Mr. Elk?”
“Mr. Elk is an old friend,” said Johnson, almost cheerful for a second.
“Well, what is your kick?—sit down, won’t you?” said Dick. “I’m going to have a real breakfast. Will you join me?”
“With pleasure, sir. I’ve eaten nothing this morning. I usually have a little lunch about eleven, but I can’t say that I feel very hungry. The fact is, Captain Gordon, I’m fired.”
Dick raised his eyebrows.
“What—has Maitland fired you?”
Johnson nodded.
“And to think that I’ve served the old devil all these years faithfully, on a clerk’s salary! I’ve never given him any cause for complaint, I’ve handled hundreds of thousands—yes, and millions! And although it’s not for me to blow my own trumpet, I’ve never once been a penny out in my accounts. Of course, if I had been, he would have found it out in less than no time, for he is the greatest mathematician I’ve ever met. And as sharp as a needle! He can write twice as fast as any other man I’ve known,” he added with reluctant admiration.
“It’s rather curious that a man of his uncouth appearance and speech should have those attainments,” said Dick.
“It’s a wonder to me,” confessed Johnson. “In fact, it has been a standing wonder to me ever since I’ve known him. You’d think he was a dustman or a tramp, to hear him talk, yet he’s a very well-read man, of extraordinary educational qualities.”
“Can he remember dates?” asked Elk.
“He can even remember dates,” replied Johnson seriously. “A queer old man, and in many ways an unpleasant old man. I’m not saying this because he’s fired me; I’ve always had the same view. He’s without a single spark of kindness; I think the only human thing about him is his love for this little boy.”
“What little boy?” asked Elk, immediately interested.
“I’ve never seen him,” said Johnson. “The child has never been brought to the office. I don’t know who he is or whose he is; I’ve an idea he’s a grandchild of Maitland’s.”
There was a pause.
“I see,” said Dick softly, and well he did see, for in that second began his understanding of the Frog and the secret of the Frog.
“Why were you fired?” he asked.
Johnson shrugged his shoulders.
“Over a stupid thing; in fact, it’s hardly worth talking about. It appears the old man saw me at Heron’s Club the other night, and ever since then he’s been going carefully into my petty cash account, probably under the impression that I was living a fast life! Beyond the usual grousing, there was nothing in his manner to suggest that he intended getting rid of me; but this morning, when I came, I found that he had already arrived, which was an unusual circumstance. He doesn’t as a rule get to the office until about an hour after we start work. ‘Johnson,’ he said, ‘I understand that you know a Miss Ella Bennett.’ I replied that I was fortunate enough to know the lady. ‘And I understand,’ he went on, ’that you’ve been down there to lunch on one or two occasions.’ ‘That is perfectly true, Mr. Maitland,’ I replied. ‘Very well, Johnson,’ said Maitland, ‘you’re fired.’ ”
“And that was all?” asked Dick in amazement.
“That was all,” said Johnson in a hushed voice. “Can you understand it?”
Dick could have said yes, but he did not. Elk, more curious, and passionately anxious to extend his knowledge of the mysterious Maitland, had something to ask.
“Johnson, you’ve been right close to this man Maitland for years. Have you noticed anything about him that’s particularly suspicious?”
“Like what, Mr. Elk?”
“Has he had any visitors for whom you couldn’t account? Have you known him, for example, to do anything which would suggest to you that he had something to do with the Frogs?”
“The Frogs?” Johnson opened his eyes wide, and his voice emphasized his incredulity. “Bless you, no! I shouldn’t imagine he knows anything about these people. You mean the tramps who have committed so many crimes? No, Mr. Elk, I’ve never heard or seen or read anything which gave me that impression.”
“You’ve seen the records of most of his transactions; are there any that he has made which would lead you to believe that he had benefited, say, by the death of Mr. Maclean in Dundee, or by the attack which was made upon the woollen merchant at Derby? For example, do you know whether he has been engaged in the buying or selling of French brandies or perfumes?”
Johnson shook his head.
“No, sir, he deals only in real estate. He has properties in this country and in the South of France and in America. He has done a little business in exchanges; in fact, we did a very large exchange business until the mark broke.”
“What are you going to do now, Mr. Johnson?” asked Dick.
The other made a gesture of helplessness.
“What can I do, sir?” he asked. “I am nearly fifty; I’ve spent most of my working life in one job, and it is very unlikely that I can get another. Fortunately for me, I’ve not only saved money, but I have had one or two lucky investments, and for those I must be grateful to the old man. I don’t think he was particularly pleased when he found that I’d followed his advice, but that’s beside the question. I do owe him that. I’ve just about enough money to keep me for the rest of my life if I go quietly and do not engage in any extraordinary speculations. Why I came to see you was to ask you, Captain Gordon, if you had any kind of opening. I should like a little spare time work, and I’d be most happy to work with you.”
Dick was rather embarrassed, because the opportunities for employing Mr. Johnson were few and far between. Nevertheless, he was anxious to help the man.
“Let me give the matter a day or two’s thought,” he said. “What is Maitland doing for a secretary?”
“I don’t know. That is my chief worry. I saw a letter lying on his desk, addressed to Miss Ella Bennett, and I have got an idea that he intends offering her the job.”
Dick could hardly believe his ears.
“What makes you think that?”
“I don’t know, sir, only once or twice the old man has inquired whether Ray has a sister. He took quite an interest in her for two or three days, and then let the matter drop. It is as astonishing as anything he has ever done.”
Elk for some reason felt immensely sorry for the man. He was so obviously and patently unfitted for the rough and tumble of competition. And the opportunities which awaited a man of fifty worn to one groove were practically non-existent.
“I don’t know that I can help you either, Mr. Johnson,” he said. “As far as Miss Bennett is concerned, I imagine that there is no possibility of her accepting any such offer, supposing Maitland made it. I’ll have your address in case I want to communicate with you.”
“431, Fitzroy Square,” replied Johnson, and produced a somewhat soiled card with an apology. “I haven’t much use for cards,” he said.
He walked to the door and hesitated with his hand on its edge.
“I’m—I’m very fond of Miss Bennett,” he said, “and I’d like her to know that Maitland isn’t as bad as he looks. I’ve got to be fair to him!”
“Poor devil!” said Elk, watching the man through the window as he walked dejectedly along Harley Terrace. “It’s tough on him. You nearly told him about seeing Maitland this morning! I saw that, and was ready to jump in. It’s the young lady’s secret.”
“I wish to heaven it wasn’t,” said Dick sincerely, and remembered that he had asked Johnson to stay to breakfast.
CHAPTER XXI
THERE is a certain murky likeness between the houses in Fitzroy Square, London, and Gramercy Park, New York. Fitzroy Square belongs to the Georgian days, when Soho was a fashionable suburb, and St. Martins-in-the-Fields was really in the fields, and was not tucked away between a Vaudeville house and a picture gallery.
No. 431 had been subdivided by its owner into three self-contained flats, Johnson’s being situated on the ground floor. There was a fourth basement flat, which was occupied by a man and his wife who acted for the owners, and, incidentally, were responsible, in the case of Johnson, for keeping his apartments clean and supplying him with the very few meals that he had on the premises.
It was nearly ten o’clock when philosopher Johnson arrived home that evening, and he was a very tired man. He had spent the greater part of the day in making a series of calls upon financial and real estate houses. To his inevitable inquiries he received an inevitable answer. There were no vacancies, and certainly no openings for a stoutish man of fifty, who looked, to the discerning eyes of the merchants concerned or their managing clerks, past his best years of work. Patient Mr. Johnson accepted each rebuff and moved on to another field, only to find his experience repeated.
He let himself in with a latchkey, walked wearily into a little sitting-room, and dropped with a sigh to the Chesterfield, for he was not given to violent exercise.
The room in which he sat was prettily, but not expensively furnished. A large green carpet covered the floor; the walls were hidden by book-shelves; and there was about the place a certain cosiness which money cannot buy. Rising after some little time, he walked to his book-shelf, took down a volume and spent the next two hours in reading. It was nearly midnight when he turned out the light and went to bed.
His bedroom was at the farther end of the short corridor, and in five minutes he was undressed and asleep.
Mr. Johnson was usually a light but consistent sleeper, but to-night he had not been asleep an hour before he was awake again. And wider awake than he had been at any portion of the day. Softly he got out of bed, put on his slippers and pulled a dressing-gown round him; then, taking something from a drawer in his bureau, he opened the door and crept softly along the carpeted passage toward his sitting-room.
He had heard no sound; it was sheer premonition of a pressing danger which had wakened him. His hand was on the door-knob, and he had turned it, when he heard a faint click. It was the sound of a light being turned off, and the sound came from the sitting-room.
With a quick jerk he threw open the door and reached out his hand for the switch; and then, from the blackness of the room, came a warning voice.
“Touch that light and you die! I’ve got you covered. Put your gun on the floor at your feet—quick!”
Johnson stooped and laid down the revolver he had taken from his bureau.
“Now step inside, and step lively,” said the voice.
“Who are you?” asked Johnson steadily.
He strained his eyes to pierce the darkness, and saw the figure now. It was standing by his desk, and the shine of something in its hand warned him that the threat was no idle one.
“Never met me?” There was a chuckle of laughter in the voice of the Unknown. “I’ll bet you haven’t! Friend—meet the Frog!”
“The Frog?” Johnson repeated the words mechanically.
“One name’s as good as another. That will do for mine,” said the stranger. “Throw over the key of your desk.”
There was a silence.
“I haven’t my key here,” said Johnson. “It is in the bedroom.”
“Stay where you are,” warned the voice.
Johnson had kicked off his slippers softly, and was feeling with his feet for the pistol he had laid so obediently on the floor in the first shock of surprise. Presently he found it and drew it toward him with his bare toes.
“What do you want?” he asked, temporizing.
“I want to see your office papers—all the papers you’ve brought from Maitlands.”
“There is nothing here of any value,” said Johnson.
The revolver was now at his feet and a little ahead of him. He kept his toes upon the butt, ready to drop just as soon as he could locate with any certainty the position of the burglar. But now, though his eyes were growing accustomed to the darkness, he could no longer see the owner of the voice.
“Come nearer,” said the stranger, “and hold out your hands.”
Johnson made as though to obey, but dropped suddenly to his knees. The explosion deafened him. He heard a cry, saw, in the flash of his pistol, a dark figure, and then something struck him.
He came to consciousness ten minutes later, to find the room empty. Staggering to his feet, he put on the light and walked unsteadily back to his bedroom, to examine the extent of his injuries. He felt the bump on his head gingerly, and grinned. Somebody was knocking at the outer door, a peremptory, authoritative knocking. With a wet towel to his injured head he went out into the passage and opened the front door. He found two policemen at the step and a small crowd gathered on the pavement.
“Has there been shooting here?”
“Yes, constable,” said Johnson, “I did a little shooting, but I don’t think I hit anything.”
“Have you been hurt, sir? Was it burglars?”
“I can’t tell you. Come in,” said Johnson, and led the way back to the disordered library.
The blind was flapping in the draught, for the window, which looked out upon a side street, was open.
“Have you missed anything?”
“No, I don’t think so,” said Johnson. “I think it was rather more important than an ordinary burglary. I am going to call Inspector Elk of Scotland Yard, and I think you had better leave the room as it is until he arrives.”
Elk was in his office, laboriously preparing a report on the escape of Hagn, when the call came through. He listened attentively, and then:
“I’ll come down, Johnson. Tell the constable to leave things—ask him to speak to me.”
By the time Elk had arrived, the philosopher was dressed.
“He gave you a pretty hefty one,” said Elk, examining the contusion with a professional eye.
“I wasn’t prepared for it. I expected him to shoot, and he must have struck at me as I fired.”
“You say it was the Frog himself?” said the sceptical Elk. “I doubt it. The Frog has never undertaken a job on his own, so far as I can remember.”
“It was either the Frog or one of his trusted emissaries,” said Johnson with a good-humoured smile. “Look at this.”
On the centre of his pink blotting-pad was stamped the inevitable Frog. It appeared also on the panel of the door.
“That is supposed to be a warning, isn’t it?” said Johnson. “Well, I hadn’t time to get acquainted with the warning before I got mine!”
“There are worse things than a clubbing,” said Elk cheerfully. “You’ve missed nothing?”
Johnson shook his head.
“No, nothing.”
Elk’s inspection of the room was short but thorough. It was near the open window, blown by the breeze into the folds of the curtain, that he found the parcel-room ticket. It was a green slip acknowledging the reception of a handbag, and it was issued at the terminus of the Great Northern Railway.
“Is this yours?” he asked.
Johnson took the slip from him, examined it and shook his head.
“No,” he said, “I’ve never seen it before.”
“Anybody else in your flat likely to have left a bag at King’s Cross station?”
Again Johnson shook his head and smiled.
“There is nobody else in this flat,” he said, “except myself.”
Elk took the paper under the light and scrutinized the date-stamp. The luggage had been deposited a fortnight before, and, as is usual in such tickets, the name of the depositor was not given.
“It may have blown in from the garden,” he said. “There is a stiff breeze to-night, but I should not imagine that anybody who had got an important piece of luggage would leave the ticket to fly around. I’ll investigate this,” he said, and put the ticket carefully away in his pocket-book. “You didn’t see the man?”
“I caught a glimpse of him as I fired, and I am under the impression that he was masked.”
“Did you recognize his voice?”
“No,” said Johnson, shaking his head.
Elk examined the window. The catch had been cleverly forced—“cleverly” because it was a new type of patent fastening familiar to him, and which he did not remember ever having seen forced from the outside before. Instinctively his mind went back to the burglary at Lord Farmley’s, to that beautifully cut handle and blown lock; and though, by no stretch of imagination, could the two jobs be compared, yet there was a similarity in finish and workmanship which immediately struck him.
What made this burglary all the more remarkable was that, for the first time, there had appeared somebody who claimed to be the Frog himself. Never before had the Frog given tangible proof of his existence. He understood the organization well enough to know that none of the Frog’s willing slaves would have dared to use his name. And why did he consider that Johnson was worthy of his personal attention?
“No,” said Johnson in answer to his question, “there are no documents here of the slightest value. I used to bring home a great deal of work from Maitlands; in fact, I have often worked into the middle of the night. That is why my dismissal is such a scandalous piece of ingratitude.”
“You have never had any private papers of Maitland’s here, which perhaps you might have forgotten to return?” asked Elk thoughtfully, and Johnson’s ready smile and twinkling eyes supplied an answer.
“That’s rather a graceful way of putting the matter,” he said. “No, I have none of Maitland’s documents here. If you care, you can see the contents of all my cupboards, drawers and boxes, but I can assure you that I’m a very methodical man; I know practically every paper in my possession.”
Walking home, Elk reviewed the matter of this surprising appearance. If the truth be told, he was very glad to have some additional problem to keep his mind off the very unpleasant interview which was promised for the morning. Captain Dick Gordon would assume all responsibility, and probably the Commissioners would exonerate Elk from any blame; but to the detective, the “people upstairs” were almost as formidable as the Frog himself.
CHAPTER XXII
HE intended making an early call at King’s Cross to examine the contents of the bag, but awoke the next morning, his mind filled with the coming inquiry to the exclusion of all other matters; and although he entered Johnson’s burglary in his report book very carefully, and locked away the cloak-room ticket in his safe, he was much too absorbed and worried to make immediate inquiries.
Dick arrived for the inquiry, and his assistant gave him a brief sketch of the burglary in Fitzroy Square.
“Let me see that ticket,” he asked.
Elk, unlocking the safe, produced the green slip.
“The ticket has been attached to something,” said Dick, carrying the slip to the window. “There is the mark of a paper-fastener, and the mark is recent. This may produce a little information,” he said as he handed it back.
“It’s very unlikely,” said Elk despondently as he locked the door of the safe. “Those people upstairs are going to give us hell.”
“Don’t worry,” said Dick. “I tell you, our friends above are so tickled to death at recovering the Treaty that they’re not going to worry much about Hagn.”
It was a remarkable prophecy, remarkably fulfilled. Elk was gratified and surprised when he was called into the presence of the great—every Commissioner and Chief Constable sat round the green board of judgment—to discover that the attitude of his superiors was rather one of benevolent interest than of disapproval.
“With an organization of this character we are prepared for very unexpected developments,” said the Chief Commissioner. “In ordinary circumstances, the escape of Hagn would be a matter calling for severe measures against those responsible. But I really cannot apportion the blame in this particular case. Balder seems to have behaved with perfect propriety; I quite approve of your having put him into the cell with Hagn; and I do not see what I can do with the gaoler. The truth is, that the Frogs are immensely powerful—more powerful than the agents of an enemy Government, because they are working with inside knowledge, and in addition, of course, they are our own people. You think it is possible, Captain Gordon, to round up the Frogs?—I know it will be a tremendous business. Is it worth while?”
Dick shook his head.
“No, sir,” he replied. “They are too numerous, and the really dangerous men are going to be difficult to identify. It has come to our knowledge that the chiefs of this organization—at least, some of them—are not so marked.”
Not all the members of the Board of Inquiry were as pleasant as the Chief Commissioner.
“It comes to this,” said a white-haired Chief Constable, “that in the space of a week we have had two prisoners killed under the eyes of the police, and one who has practically walked out of the cell in which he was guarded by a police officer, without being arrested or any clue being furnished as to the method the Frogs employed.” He shook his head. “That’s bad, Captain Gordon.”
“Perhaps you would like to take charge of the inquiry, sir,” said Dick. “This is not the ordinary petty larceny type of crime, and I seem to remember having dealt with a case of yours whilst I was in the Prosecutor’s Department, presenting less complicated features, in which you were no more successful than I and my officers have been in dealing with the Frogs. You must allow me the greatest latitude and exercise patience beyond the ordinary. I know the Frog,” he said simply.
For some time they did not realize what he had said.
“You know him?” asked the Chief Commissioner incredulously.
Dick nodded.
“If I were to tell you who it was,” he said, “you would probably laugh at me. And obviously, whilst it is quite possible for me to secure an arrest this morning, it is not as easy a matter to produce overwhelming evidence that will convict. You must give me rope if I am to succeed.”
“But how did you discover him, Captain Gordon?” asked the Chief, and Elk, who had listened, dumbfounded, to this claim of his superior, waited breathlessly for the reply.
“It was clear to me,” said Dick, speaking slowly and deliberately, “when I learnt from Mr. Johnson, who was Maitland’s secretary, that somewhere concealed in the old man’s house was a mysterious child.” He smiled as he looked at the blank faces of the Board. “That doesn’t sound very convincing, I’m afraid,” he said, “but nevertheless, you will learn in due course why, when I discovered this, I was perfectly satisfied that I could take the Frog whenever I wished. It is not necessary to say that, knowing as I do, or as I am convinced I do, the identity of this individual, events from now on will take a more interesting and a more satisfactory course. I do not profess to be able to explain how Hagn came to make his escape. I have a suspicion—it is no more than a suspicion—but even that event is soluble if my other theory is right, as I am sure it is.”
Until the meeting was over and the two men were again in Elk’s office, the detective spoke no word. Then, closing the door carefully, he said:
“If that was a bluff of yours, Captain Gordon, it was the finest bluff I have ever heard, and I’ve an idea it wasn’t a bluff.”
“It was no bluff,” said Dick quietly. “I tell you I am satisfied that I know the Frog.”
“Who is it?”
Dick shook his head.
“This isn’t the time to tell you. I don’t think any useful purpose would be served if I made my views known—even to you. Now what about your cloak-room ticket?”
Dick did not accompany him to King’s Cross, for he had some work to do in his office, and Elk went alone to the cloak-room. Producing the ticket, he paid the extra fees for the additional period of storage, and received from the attendant a locked brown leather bag.
“Now, son,” said Elk, having revealed his identity, “perhaps you will tell me if you remember who brought this bag?”
The attendant grinned.
“I haven’t that kind of memory,” he said.
“I sympathize with you,” said Elk, “but possibly if you concentrated your mind, you might be able to recall something. Faces aren’t dates.”
The attendant turned over the leaves of his book to make sure.
“Yes, I was on duty that day.”
“What time was it handed in?”
He examined the counterfoils.
“About eleven o’clock in the morning,” he said. He shook his head. “I can’t remember who brought it. We get so much luggage entered at that time in the morning that it’s almost impossible for me to recall any particular person. I know one thing, that there wasn’t anything peculiar about him, or I should have remembered.”
“You mean that the person who handed this in was very ordinary. Was he an American?”
Again the attendant thought.
“No, I don’t think he was an American, sir,” he said. “I should have remembered that. I don’t think we have had an American here for weeks.”
Elk took the bag to the office of the station police inspector, and with the aid of his key unlocked and pulled it wide open. Its contents were unusual. A suit of clothes, a shirt, collar and tie, a brand-new shaving outfit, a small bottle of Annatto, a colouring material used by dairymen, a passport made out in the name of “John Henry Smith,” but with the photograph missing, a Browning pistol, fully loaded, an envelope containing 5,000 francs and five one-hundred-dollar bills; these comprised the contents.
Elk surveyed the articles as they were spread on the inspector’s table.
“What do you make of that?”
The railwayman shook his head.
“It’s a fairly complete outfit,” he said.
“You mean a get-away outfit? That’s what I think,” said Elk; “and I’d like to bet that one of these bags is stored at every railway terminus in London!”
The clothing bore no marks, the Browning was of Belgian manufacture, whilst the passport might, or might not, have been forged, though the blank on which it was written was obviously genuine. (A later inquiry put through to the Foreign Office revealed the fact that it had not been officially issued.)
Elk packed away the outfit into the bag.
“I shall take these to the Yard. Perhaps they’ll be called for—but more likely they won’t.”
Elk came out of the Inspector’s office on to the broad platform, wondering what it would be best to do. Should he leave the bag in the cloak-room and set a man to watch? . . . That would be a little futile, for nobody could call unless he had the ticket, and it would mean employing a good officer for nothing. He decided in the end to take the bag to the Yard and hand it over for a more thorough inspection.
One of the Northern expresses had just pulled into the station, two hours late, due to a breakdown on the line. Elk stood looking idly at the stream of passengers passing out through the barrier, and, so watching, he saw a familiar face. His mind being occupied with this, the familiarity did not force itself upon his attention until the man he had recognized had passed out of view. It was John Bennett—a furtive, hurrying figure, with his battered suit-case in his hand, a dark felt hat pulled over his eyes.
Elk strolled across to the barrier where a station official was standing.
“Where does this train come from?”
“Aberdeen, sir.”
“Last stop?” asked Elk.
“Last stop Doncaster,” said the official.
Whilst he was speaking, Elk saw Bennett returning. Apparently he had forgotten something, for there was a frown of annoyance on his face. He pushed his way through the stream of people that were coming from the barriers, and Elk wondered what was the cause of his return. He had not long to wait before he learnt.
When Bennett appeared again, he was carrying a heavy brown box, fastened with a strap, and Elk recognized the motion picture camera with which this strange man pursued his paying hobby.
“Queer bird!” said Elk to himself and, calling a cab, carried his find back to headquarters.
He put the bag in his safe, and sent for two of his best men.
“I want the cloak-rooms of every London terminus inspected for bags of this kind,” he said, showing the bag. “It has probably been left for weeks. Push the usual inquiries as to the party who made the deposit, select all likely bags, and, to make sure, have them opened on the spot. If they contained a complete shaving kit, a gun, a passport and money, they are to be brought to Scotland Yard and held for me.”
Gordon, whom he afterwards saw, agreed with his explanation for the presence of this interesting find.
“At any hour of the day or night he’s ready to jump for safety,” said Elk admiringly; “and at any terminus we shall find money, a change of kit and the necessary passport to carry him abroad, Annatto to stain his face and hands—I expect he carries his own photograph. And by the way, I saw John Bennett.”
“At the station?” asked Dick.
Elk nodded.
“He was returning from the north, from one of five towns—Aberdeen, Arbroath, Edinburgh, York or Doncaster. He didn’t see me, and I didn’t push myself forward. Captain, what do you think of this man Bennett?”
Dick did not reply.
“Is he your Frog?” challenged Elk, and Dick Gordon chuckled.
“You’re not going to get my Frog by a process of elimination. Elk, and you can save yourself a whole lot of trouble if you cut out the idea that cross-examining me will produce good results.”
“I never thought anything so silly,” said Elk. “But John Bennett gets me guessing. If he were the Frog, he couldn’t have been in Johnson’s sitting-room last night.”
“Not unless he motored to Doncaster to catch an alibi train,” said Dick, and then: “I wonder if the Doncaster police are going to call in headquarters, or whether they’ll rely upon their own intelligence department.”
“About what?” asked Elk surprised.
“Mabberley Hall, which is just outside Doncaster, was burgled last night,” said Dick, “and Lady FitzHerman’s diamond tiara was stolen—rather supports your theory, doesn’t it, Elk?”
Elk said nothing, but he wished most fervently that he had some excuse or other for searching John Bennett’s bag.