“Sir,” it ran, “I am directed by the Chief Commissioner of Police to inform you that the promotion of Police-Constable J. J. Balder to the rank of Acting-Sergeant has been approved. The appointment will date as from the 1st May.”
“Sir,” it ran, “I am directed by the Chief Commissioner of Police to inform you that the promotion of Police-Constable J. J. Balder to the rank of Acting-Sergeant has been approved. The appointment will date as from the 1st May.”
Elk folded up the paper and was genuinely pleased. He rang the bell for Balder before he remembered that he had sent his assistant home. Elk’s evening was free, and in the kindness of his heart he decided upon conveying the news personally.
“I’d like to see this wife of his,” said Elk, addressing nobody, “and the children!”
Elk turned up the official pass register, and found that Balder lived at 93, Leaford Road, Uxbridge. The names of his wife and children were not entered, to Elk’s disappointment. He would like to have addressed the latter personally, but no new entry had been made on the sheet since Balder’s enlistment.
His police car took him to Leaford Road; 93 was a respectable little house—such a house as Elk always imagined his assistant would live in. His knock was answered by an elderly woman who was dressed for going out, and Elk was surprised to see that she wore the uniform of a nurse.
“Yes, Mr. Balder lives here,” she said, apparently surprised to see the visitor. “That is to say, he has two rooms here, though he very seldom stays here the night. He usually comes here to change, and then I think he goes on to his friends.”
“Does his wife live here?”
“His wife?” said the woman in surprise. “I didn’t know that he was married.”
Elk had brought Balder’s official record with him, to procure some dates which it was necessary he should certify for pension purposes. In the space against Balder’s address, he noticed for the first time that there were two addresses given, and that Leaford Road had been crossed out with ink so pale that he only noticed it now that he saw the paper in daylight. The second address was one in Stepney.
“I seem to have made a mistake,” he said. “His address here is Orchard Street, Stepney.” But the nurse smiled.
“He was with me many years ago,” she said, “then he went to Stepney, but during the war he came here, because the air raids were rather bad in the East End of London. I am under the impression he has still a room in Stepney.”
“Oh?” said Elk thoughtfully.
He was at the gate when the nurse called him back.
“I don’t think he goes to Stepney, though I don’t know whether I ought to talk about his business to a stranger; but if you want him particularly, I should imagine you would find him at Slough. I’m a monthly nurse,” she said, “and I’ve seen his car twice going into Seven Gables on the Slough Road. I think he must have a friend there.”
“Whose car?” asked the startled Elk.
“It may be his or his friend’s car,” said the nurse. “Is he a friend of yours?”
“He is in a way,” said Elk cautiously.
She stood for a moment thinking.
“Will you come in, please?”
He followed her into the clean and tidy little parlour.
“I don’t know why I told you, or why I’ve been talking so freely to you,” she said, “but the truth is, I’ve given Mr. Balder notice. He makes so many complaints, and he’s so difficult to please, that I can’t satisfy him. It isn’t as though he paid me a lot of money—he doesn’t. I make very little profit out of his rooms, and I’ve a chance of letting them at a better rent. And then he’s so particular about his letters. I’ve had a letter-box put on the door, but even that is not big enough to hold them some days. What his other business is, I don’t know. The letters that come here are for the Didcot Chemical Works. You probably think that I am a very difficult woman to please, because, after all, he’s out all day and seldom sleeps here at night.”
Elk drew a long breath.
“I think you’re nearly the finest woman I’ve ever met,” he said. “Are you going out now?”
She nodded.
“I’ve an all night case, and I shan’t be back till eleven to-morrow. You were very fortunate in finding anybody at home.”
“I think you said ‘his car’; what sort of a car is it?” asked Elk.
“It’s a black machine—I don’t know the make; I think it is an American make. And he must have something to do with the ownership because once I found a lot of tyre catalogues in his bedroom, and some of the tyres he had marked with a pencil, so I suppose he’s responsible to an extent.”
One last question Elk asked.
“Does he come back here at night after you’ve gone?”
“Very rarely, I imagine,” replied the woman. “He has his own key, and as I’m very often out at night I’m not sure whether he returns or not.”
Elk stood with one foot on the running-board of his car.
“Perhaps I can drop you somewhere, madam?” he said, and the elderly woman gratefully accepted.
Elk went back to headquarters, opened a drawer of his desk and took out a few implements of his profession, and, after filing a number of urgent instructions, returned to the waiting car, driving to Harley Terrace. Dick Gordon had an engagement that night to join a theatre party with the members of the American Embassy, and he was in one of the boxes at the Hilarity Theatre when Elk opened the door quietly, tapped him on the shoulder, and brought him out into the corridor, without the remainder of the party being aware that their guest had retired.
“Anything wrong, Elk?” asked Gordon.
“Balder’s got his promotion,” said Elk solemnly, and Dick stared at him. “He’s an Acting-Sergeant,” Elk went on, “and I don’t know a better rank for Balder. When this news comes to him and his wife and children, there’ll be some happy hearts, believe me.”
Elk never drank: this was the first thought that came to Dick Gordon’s mind; but there was a possibility that the anxieties and worries of the past few weeks might have got on top of him.
“I’m very glad for Balder,” he said gently, “and I’m glad for you too, Elk, because I know you tried hard to get this miserable devil a step in the right direction.”
“Go on with what you were thinking,” said Elk.
“I don’t know that I was thinking anything,” laughed Dick.
“You were thinking that I must be suffering from sunstroke, or I shouldn’t take you out of your comfortable theatre to announce Balder’s promotion. Now will you get your coat, Captain Gordon, and come along with me? I want to break the news to Balder.”
Mystified, but asking no further questions, Gordon went to the cloak-room, got his coat, and joined the detective in the vestibule.
“We’re going to Slough—to the Seven Gables,” he added. “It’s a fine house. I haven’t seen it, but I know it’s a fine house, with a carriage drive and grand furniture, electric light, telephone and a modern bathroom. That’s deduction. I’ll tell you something else—also deduction. There are trip wires on the lawn, burglar alarms in the windows, about a hundred servants——”
“What the devil are you talking about?” asked Dick, and Elk chuckled hysterically.
They were running through Uxbridge when a long-bodied motor-car whizzed past them at full speed. It was crowded with men who were jammed into the seats or sat upon one another’s knees.
“That’s a merry little party,” said Dick.
“Very,” replied Elk laconically.
A few seconds later, a second car flashed past, going much faster than they.
“That looks to me like one of your police cars,” said Dick.
This, too, was crowded.
“It certainly looks like one of my police cars,” agreed Elk. “In America they’ve got a better stunt. As you probably know, they’ve a fine patrol wagon system. I’d like to introduce it into this country; it’s very handy.”
As the car slowed to pass through the narrow, crooked street of Colnebrook, a third of the big machines squeezed past, and this time there was no mistaking its character. The man who sat with the driver, Dick knew as a detective inspector. He winked at Elk as he passed, and Elk winked back with great solemnity.
“What is the idea?” asked Dick, his curiosity now thoroughly piqued.
“We’re having a smoking concert,” said Elk, “to celebrate Balder’s promotion. And it will be one of the greatest successes that we’ve had in the history of the Force. There will be the brothers Mick and Mac, the trick cyclists, in their unrivalled act . . .” He babbled on foolishly.
At Langley the fourth and fifth police cars came past. Dick had long since realized that the slow pace at which his own car was moving was designed to allow these laden machines to overtake them. Beyond Langley, the Windsor road turned abruptly to the left, and, leaning over the driver, Elk gave new instructions. There was no sign of the police cars: they had apparently gone on to Slough. A solitary country policeman stood at the cross-roads and watched them as they disappeared in the dusk with a certain languid interest.
“We’ll stop here,” said Elk, and the car was pulled from the road on to the green sidewalk.
Elk got down.
“Walk a little up the road while I talk to Captain Gordon,” he said to the chauffeur, and then he talked, and Dick listened in amazement and unbelief.
“Now,” said Elk, “we’ve got about five minutes’ walk, as far as I can remember. I haven’t been to Windsor races for so long that I’ve almost forgotten where the houses are.”
They found the entrance to the Seven Gables between two stiff yew hedges. There was no gateway; a broad, gravelled path ran between a thick belt of pine trees, behind which the house was hidden. Elk went a little ahead. Presently he stopped and raised his hand warningly. Dick came a little nearer, and, looking over the shoulder of the detective, had his first view of Seven Gables.
It was a large house, with timbered walls and high, twisted chimney-stacks.
“Pseudo-Elizabethan,” said Dick admiringly.
“1066,” murmured Elk, “or was it 1599? That’ssomehouse!”
It was growing dusk, and lights were showing from a broad window at the farther end of the building. The arched doorway was facing them.
“Let us go back,” whispered Elk, and they retraced their steps.
It was not until darkness had fallen that he led the way up the carriage drive to the point they had reached on their earlier excursion. The light still showed in the window, but the cream-coloured blinds were drawn down.
“It is safe up as far as the door,” whispered Elk; “but right and left of that, watch out!”
He had pulled a pair of thick stockings over his shoes, and handed another pair to Dick; and then, with an electric torch in his hand, he began to move along the path which ran parallel with the building. Presently he stopped.
“Step over,” he whispered.
Dick, looking down, saw the black thread traversing the path, and very cautiously avoided the obstacle.
A few more paces, and again Elk stopped and warned Dick to step high, turning to show his light upon the second of the threads, almost invisible even in the powerful glare of the electric lamp. He did not move from where he stood until he had made a careful examination of the path ahead; and it was well that he did so, for the third trip wire was less than two feet from the second.
They were half-an-hour covering the twenty yards which separated them from the window. The night was warm, and one of the casements was open. Elk crept close under the window-sill, his sensitive fingers feeling for the alarm which he expected to find protecting the broad sill. This he discovered and avoided, and, raising his hand, he gently drew aside the window blind.
He saw a large, oaken-panelled room, luxuriously furnished. The wide, open stone fireplace was banked with flowers, and before it, at a small table, sat two men. The first was Balder—unmistakably Balder, and strangely good-looking. Balder’s red nose was no longer red. He was in evening dress and between his teeth was a long amber cigarette-holder.
Dick saw it all, his cheek against Elk’s head, heard the quick intake of the detective’s breath, and then noticed the second man. It was Mr. Maitland.
Mr. Maitland sat, his face in his hands, and Balder was looking at him with a cynical smile.
They were too far away to hear what the men were saying, but apparently Maitland was being made the object of reproof. He looked up after a while, and got on to his feet and began talking. They heard the rumble of his excited voice, but again no word was intelligible. Then they saw him raise his fist and shake it at the smiling man, who watched him with a calm, detached interest, as though he were some strange insect which had come into his ken. With this parting gesture of defiance, old Maitland shuffled from the room and the door closed behind him. In a few minutes he came out of the house, not through the doorway, as they expected, but apparently through a gateway on the other side of the hedge, for they saw the gleam of the headlights of his car as it passed.
Left alone, Balder poured himself a drink and apparently rang for one of the servants. The man who came in arrested Dick’s attention instantly. He wore the conventional uniform of a footman, the dark trousers and the striped waistcoat, but it was easy to see, from the way he moved, that he was not an ordinary type of servant. A big man, powerfully built, his every action was slow and curiously deliberate. Balder said something to him, and the footman nodded, and, taking up the tray, went out with the same leisurely, almost pompous, step that had distinguished his entry.
And then it flashed upon Dick, and he whispered into the detective’s ear one word.
“Blind!”
Elk nodded. Again the door opened, and this time three footmen came in, carrying a heavy-looking table with a canvas cover. At first Gordon thought that it was Balder’s meal that was being brought, but he was soon to discover the truth. Above the fireplace, hanging on a single wire, was a large electric lamp, which was not alight. Standing on a chair, one of the footmen took out the lamp and inserted a plug from the end of which ran a wire connecting with the table.
“They’re all blind,” said Elk in a whisper. “And that is Balder’s own broadcasting apparatus, and the aerial is attached to the lamp.”
The three servants went out, and, rising, Balder walked to the door and locked it.
There were another set of windows in the room, looking out upon the side of the house, and one by one Balder closed and shuttered them. He was busy with the second of the three, when Elk put his foot upon a ledge of brick, and, tearing aside the curtain, leapt into the room.
At the sound, Balder spun round.
“Evening, Balder,” said Elk.
The man made no reply. He stood, watching his sometime chief, with eyes that did not waver.
“Thought I’d come along and tell you that you’ve got your promotion,” said Elk, “as Acting-Sergeant from the 1st of May, in recognition of the services you’ve rendered to the State by poisoning Frog Mills, loosing Frog Hagn, and blowing up my office with a bomb that you planted overnight.”
Still the man did not speak, nor did he move; and here he was discreet, for the long-barrelled Browning in Elk’s hand covered the lower button of his white piqué waistcoat.
“And now,” said Elk—there was a ring of triumph in his voice—“you’ll take a little walk with me—I want you,Number Seven!”
“Haven’t you made a mistake?” drawled Balder, so unlike his usual voice that Elk was for a moment taken aback.
“I never have made a mistake except about the date when Henry the Eighth married,” said Elk.
“Who do you imagine I am?” asked this debonair man of the world.
“I’ve ceased imagining anything about you, Balder—I know!”
Elk walked with a quick movement toward him and thrust the muzzle of the pistol in his prisoner’s diaphragm.
“Put up your hands and turn round,” he said.
Balder obeyed. Slipping a pair of handcuffs from his pocket, Elk snapped them on to the wrists. Deftly the detective strapped the arms from behind, drawing them tight, so that the manacled hands had no play.
“This is very uncomfortable,” said Balder. “Is it usual for you to make mistakes of this character, Mr. Elk? My name is Collett-Banson.”
“Your name is Mud,” said Elk, “but I’m willing to listen to anything you like to say. I’d rather have your views on cyanide of potassium than anything. You can sit down.”
Dick saw a gleam come to the man’s eye; it flashed for a second and was gone. Evidently Elk saw it too.
“Don’t let your hopes rest upon any monkey tricks that might be played by your attendants,” he said, “because fifty C.I.D. men, most of whom are known personally to you, are disposed round this house.”
Balder laughed.
“If they were round the house and on top of the house, they wouldn’t worry me,” he said. “I tell you, inspector, you’ve made a very grave error, and one which will cost you dear. If a gentleman cannot sit in his own drawing-room”—he glanced at the table—“listening to a wireless concert at The Hague without interfering policemen—then it is about time the police force was disbanded.”
He walked across to the fireplace carelessly and stood with his back to it; then, lifting his foot, he kicked back one of the steel fire-dogs which stood on either side of the wide hearth, and the “dog” fell over on its side. It was a nervous act of a man who was greatly worried and was not quite conscious of what he was doing. Even Elk, who was all suspicion, saw nothing to excite his apprehension.
“You think my name is Balder, do you?” the man went on. “Well, all I can say is——”
Suddenly he flung himself sideways on to the hearthrug, but Elk was quicker. As an oblong slip of the floor gave way beneath the man’s weight, Elk gripped him by the collar and together they dragged him back to the room.
In a second the three were struggling on the floor together, and in his desperation Balder’s strength was unbelievable. His roaring cry for help was heard. There came a heavy blow on the door, the babble of angry voices without, and then, from the ground outside, a series of sharp explosions, as the army of detectives raced across the lawn, oblivious to the presence of the alarm-guns.
The fight was short and sharp. The six blind men who comprised the household of No. 7 were hustled away, and in the last car travelled Acting-Sergeant Balder, that redoubtable No. 7, who was the right hand and the left hand of the terrible Frog.
CHAPTER XXVII
DICK GORDON ended his interview with Mr. Ezra Maitland at three o’clock in the morning, and went to Headquarters, to find the charge-room at Cannon Row singularly empty. When he had left, it was impossible to get in or out for the crowd of detectives which filled or surrounded the place.
“On the whole, Pentonville is safest, and I’ve got him there. I asked the Governor to put him in the condemned cell, but it is not etiquette. Anyway, Pentonville is the safest spot I know, and I think that, unless Frogs eat stones, he’ll stay. What has Maitland got to say, Captain?”
“Maitland’s story, so far as one can get a story from him, is that he went to see Balder by invitation. ‘When you’re sent for by the police, what can you do?’ he asked, and the question is unanswerable.”
“There is no doubt at all,” said Elk, “that Maitland knew Balder’s character, and it was not in his capacity as policeman that the old man visited him. There is less doubt that this man is hand in glove with the Frog, but it is going to be very difficult to prove.”
“Maitland puzzles me,” said Dick. “He’s such a bully, and yet such a frightened old man. I thought he was going to drop through the floor when I told him who I was, and why I had come. And when I mentioned the fact that Balder had been arrested, he almost collapsed.”
“That line has to be followed,” said Elk thoughtfully. “I have sent for Johnson. He ought to be here by now. Johnson must know something about the old man’s business, and he will be a very valuable witness if we can connect the two.”
The philosopher arrived half-an-hour later, having been aroused from his sleep to learn that his presence was required at Headquarters.
“Mr. Elk will tell you something which will be public property in a day or two,” said Gordon. “Balder has been arrested in connection with the explosion which occurred in Mr. Elk’s office.”
It was necessary to explain to Johnson exactly who Balder was, and Dick went on to tell him of the old man’s visit to Slough. Johnson shook his head.
“I didn’t know that Maitland had a friend of that name,” he said. “Balder? What other name had he?”
“He called himself Collett-Banson,” said Dick, and a look of understanding came to the face of Johnson.
“I know that name very well. Mr. Banson used frequently to call at the office, generally late in the evenings—Maitland spends three nights a week working after the clerks have gone, as I know to my cost,” he said. “A rather tall, good-looking fellow of about forty?”
“Yes, that is the man.”
“He has a house near Windsor. I have never been there, but I know because I have posted letters to him.”
“What sort of business did Collett-Banson have with Maitland?”
“I’ve never been able to discover. I always thought of him as a man who had property to sell, for that was the only type of outsider who was ever admitted to Maitland’s presence. I remember that he had the child staying with him for about a week——”
“That is, the child in Maitland’s house?”
Johnson nodded.
“You don’t know what association there is between the child and these two men?”
“No, sir, except that I am certain that Mr. Collett-Banson had the little boy with him, because I sent toys—mechanical engines or something of the sort—by Mr. Maitland’s directions. It was the day that Mr. Maitland made his will, about eighteen months ago. I remember the day particularly for a peculiar reason. I had expected Mr. Maitland to ask me to witness the will and was piqued, for no cause, because he brought two clerks up from the office to sign. These little things impress themselves upon one,” he added.
“Was the will made in favour of the child?”
Johnson shook his head.
“I haven’t the slightest knowledge of how the property goes,” he said. “He never discussed the matter with me; he wouldn’t even employ a lawyer. In fact, I don’t remember his ever employing a lawyer all the time I was with him, except for conveyancing work. He told me he had copied the form of will from a book, but beyond feeling hurt that I, an old and faithful servant of his, hadn’t been taken a little into his confidence, I wasn’t greatly interested in the matter. But I do remember that that morning I went down to a store and bought a whole lot of toys, had them packed and brought them back to the office. The old man played with them all the afternoon!”
Early in the morning Dick Gordon interviewed the prisoners at Pentonville, and found them in a very obstinate mood.
“I know nothing about babies or children; and if Johnson says he sent toys, he is lying,” said Balder defiantly. “I refuse to make any statement about Maitland or my association with Maitland. I am the victim of police persecution, and I defy you to bring any proof that I have committed a single act in my life—unless it is a crime to live like a gentleman—for which you can imprison me.”
“Have you any message for your wife and children?” asked Dick sarcastically, and the sullen features of the man relaxed for a second.
“No, Elk will look after them,” he said humorously.
The most stringent precautions had been taken to prevent a rescue, and the greatest care was exercised that no communication passed between No. 7 and the outside world. He was charged at Bow Street an hour before the court usually sat. Evidence of arrest was taken, and he was remanded, being removed to Pentonville in a motor-van under armed guard.
On the third night of his imprisonment, romance came into the life of the second chief warder of Pentonville Prison. He was comparatively young and single, not without good looks, and lived, with his widowed mother, at Shepherd’s Bush. It was his practice to return home after his day’s duty by omnibus, and he was alighting on this day when a lady, who had got off before him, stumbled and fell. Instantly he was by her side, and had lifted her to her feet. She was young and astonishingly pretty and he helped her gain the pavement.
“It was nothing,” she said smilingly, but with a grimace of pain. “It was very foolish of me to come by ’bus; I was visiting an old servant of mine who is ill. Will you call me a taxi, please?”
“Certainly, madam,” said the gallant chief warder.
The taxi which was passing was beckoned to the kerb. The girl looked round helplessly.
“I wish I could see somebody I know. I don’t want to go home alone; I’m so afraid of fainting.”
“If you would not object to my escort,” said the man, with all the warm-hearted earnestness which the sight of a woman in distress awakens in the bosom of impressionable man, “I will see you home.”
She shot a glance at him which was full of gratitude and accepted his escort, murmuring her regret for the trouble she was giving him.
It was a beautiful apartment she occupied. The chief warder thought he had never met so gracious and beautiful a lady before, so appropriately housed, and he was right. He would have attended to her injury, but she felt so much better, and her maid was coming in soon, and would he have a whisky-and-soda, and would he please smoke? She indicated where the cigarettes were to be found, and for an hour the chief warder spoke about himself, and had an enjoyable evening.
“I’m very much obliged to you, Mr. Bron,” she said at parting. “I feel I’ve wasted your evening.”
“I can assure you,” said Mr. Bron earnestly, “that if this is a waste of time, then time has no use!”
She laughed.
“That is a pretty speech,” she said, “and I will let you call to-morrow and see me.”
He took a careful note of the address; it was an exclusive maisonette in Bloomsbury Square; and the next evening found him ringing the bell, but this time he was not in uniform.
He left at ten o’clock, an ecstatic man who held his head high and dreamt golden dreams, for the fragrance of her charm (as he wrote her) “permeated his very being.” Ten minutes after he had gone, the girl came out, closed the door behind her and went out into the street, and the idler who had been promenading the pavement threw away his cigar.
“Good evening. Miss Bassano,” he said.
She drew herself up.
“I am afraid you have made a mistake,” she said stiffly.
“Not at all. You’re Miss Bassano, and my only excuse for addressing you is that I am a neighbour of yours.”
She looked more closely at him.
“Oh, Mr. Broad!” she said in a more gracious tone. “I’ve been visiting a friend of mine who is rather ill.”
“So I’m told, and a nice flat your friend occupies,” he said as he fell in by her side. “I was thinking of hiring it a few days ago. These furnished apartments are difficult to find. Maybe it was a week ago—yes, it was a week ago,” he said carefully; “it was the day before you had your lamentable accident in Shepherd’s Bush.”
“I don’t quite understand you,” she said, on her guard at once.
“The truth is,” said Mr. Broad apologetically, “that I’ve been trying to get at Bron too. I’ve been making a very careful study of the prison staff for the past two months, and I’ve a list of the easy boys that has cost me a lot of money to compile. I suppose you didn’t reach the stage where you persuaded him to talk about his interesting prisoner? I tried him last week,” he went on reminiscently. “He goes to a dance club at Hammersmith, and I got acquainted with him through a girl he’s keen about—you’re not the only young love of his life, by the way.”
She laughed softly.
“What a clever man you are, Mr. Broad!” she said. “No, I’m not very interested in prisoners. By the way, who is this person you were referring to?”
“I was referring to Number Seven, who is in Pentonville Gaol,” said Mr. Broad coolly, “and I’ve got an idea he is a friend of yours.”
“Number Seven?” Her perplexity would have convinced a less hardened man than Joshua Broad. “I have an idea that that is something to do with the Frogs.”
“That is something to do with the Frogs,” agreed the other gravely, “about whom I daresay you have read. Miss Bassano, I’ll make you an offer.”
“Offer me a taxi, for I’m tired of walking,” she said, and when they were seated side by side she asked: “What is your offer?”
“I offer you all that you require to get out of this country and to keep you out for a few years, until this old Frog busts—as he will bust! I’ve been watching you for a long time, and, if you won’t consider it an impertinence, I like you. There’s something about you that is very attractive—don’t stop me, because I’m not going to get fresh with you, or suggest that you’re the only girl that ever made tobacco taste like molasses—I like you in a kind of pitying way, and you needn’t get offended at that either. And I don’t want to see you hurt.”
He was very serious; she recognized his sincerity, and the word of sarcasm that rose to her lips remained unuttered.
“Are you wholly disinterested?” she asked.
“So far as you are concerned, I am,” he replied. “There is going to be an almighty smash, and it is more than likely that you’ll get in the way of some of the flying pieces.”
She did not answer him at once. What he had said merely intensified her own uneasiness.
“I suppose you know I’m married?”
“I guessed that,” he answered. “Take your husband with you. What are you going to do with that boy?”
“You mean Ray Bennett?”
It was curious that she made no attempt to disguise either her position or the part that she was playing. She wondered at herself after she was home. But Joshua Broad had a compelling way, and she never dreamt of deceiving him.
“I don’t know,” she said. “I wish he wasn’t in it. He is on my conscience. Are you smiling?”
“At your having a conscience? No, I fancied that was how you stood. And the growing beard?”
She did not laugh.
“I don’t know about that. All I know is that we’ve had—why am I telling you this? Who are you, Mr. Broad?”
He chuckled.
“Some day I’ll tell you,” he said; “and I promise you that, if you’re handy, you shall be the first to know. Go easy with that boy, Lola.”
She did not resent the employment of her first name, but rather it warmed her towards this mystery man.
“And write to Mr. Bron, Assistant Chief Warder of Pentonville Gaol, and tell him that you’ve been called out of town and won’t be able to see him again for ten years.”
To this she made no rejoinder. He left her at the door of her flat and took her little hand in his.
“If you want money to get away, I’ll send you a blank cheque,” he said. “There is no one else on the face of the earth that I’d give a blank cheque to, believe me.”
She nodded, most unusual tears in her eyes. Lola was breaking under the strain, and nobody knew it better than the hawk-faced man who watched her as she passed into her flat.
CHAPTER XXVIII
THE stone which woke Ella Bennett was aimed with such force that the pane cracked. She slipped quickly from bed and pulled aside the curtains. There had been a thunderstorm in the night, and the skies were so grey and heavy, and the light so bad, that she could only distinguish the shape of the man that stood under her window. John Bennett heard her go from her room and came to his door.
“Is it Maitland?” he asked.
“I think so,” she said.
He frowned.
“I can’t understand these visits,” he said. “Do you think he’s mad?”
She shook her head. After the precipitate flight of the old man on his last visit, she had not expected that he would come again, and guessed that only some matter of the greatest urgency would bring him. She heard her father moving about his room as she went through the darkened dining-room into the passage which opened directly on to the garden.
“Is that you, miss?” quavered a voice in the darkness.
“Yes, Mr. Maitland.”
“Isheup?” he asked in an awe-stricken whisper.
“You mean my father? Yes, he’s awake.”
“I’ve got to see you,” the old man almost wailed. “They’ve took him.”
“Taken whom?” she asked with a catch in her voice.
“That fellow Balder. I knew they would.”
She remembered having heard Elk mention Balder.
“The policeman?” she asked. “Mr. Elk’s man?”
But he was off on another tack.
“It’s you he’s after.” He came nearer to her and clutched her arm. “I warned you—don’t forget I warned you. Tell him that I warned you. He’ll make it good for me, won’t he?” he almost pleaded, and she began to understand dimly that the “he” to whom the old man was referring was Dick Gordon. “He’s been with me most of the night, prying and asking questions. I’ve had a terrible night, miss, terrible,” he almost sobbed. “First Balder and then him. He’ll get you—not that police gentleman I don’t mean, but Frog. That’s why I wrote you the letter, telling you to come up. You didn’t get no letter, did you, miss?”
She could not make head or tail of what he was saying or to whom he was referring, as he went on babbling his story of fear, a story interspersed with wild imprecations against “him.”
“Tell your father, dearie, what I said to you.” He became suddenly calmer. “Matilda said I ought to have told your father, but I’m afraid of him, my dear, I’m afraid of him!”
He took one of her hands in his and fondled it.
“You’ll speak a word for me, won’t you?” She knew he was weeping, though she could not see his face.
“Of course I’ll speak a word for you, Mr. Maitland. Oughtn’t you to see a doctor?” she asked anxiously.
“No, no, no doctors for me. But tell him, won’t you—not your father, I mean, the other feller—that I did all I could for you. That’s what I’ve come to see you about. They’ve got Balder——” He stopped short suddenly and craned his head forward. “Is that your father?” he asked in a husky whisper.
She had heard the footsteps of John Bennett on the stairs.
“Yes, I think it is, Mr. Maitland,” and at her words he pulled his hand from hers with a jerk and went shuffling down the pathway into the road and out of sight.
“What did he want?”
“I really don’t know, father,” she said. “I don’t think he can be very well.”
“Do you mean mad?”
“Yes, and yet he was quite sensible for a little time. He said they’ve got Balder.”
He did not reply to her, and she thought he had not heard her.
“They’ve taken Balder, Mr. Elk’s assistant. I suppose that means he has been arrested?”
“I suppose so,” said John Bennett, and then: “My dear, you ought to be in bed. Which way did he go?”
“He went toward Shoreham,” said the girl. “Are you going after him, father?” she asked in surprise.
“I’ll walk up the road. I’d like to see him,” said John Bennett. “You go to bed, my dear.”
But she stood waiting by the door, long after his footsteps had ceased to sound on the road. Five minutes, ten minutes passed, a quarter of an hour, and then she heard the whine of a car and the big limousine flew past the gate, spattering mud, and then came John Bennett.
“Aren’t you in bed?” he asked almost roughly.
“No, father, I don’t feel sleepy. It is late now, so I think I’ll do some work. Did you see him?”
“Who, the old man? Yes, I saw him for a minute or two.”
“Did you speak to him?”
“Yes, I spoke to him.” The man did not seem inclined to pursue the subject, but this time Ella persisted.
“Father, why is he frightened of you?”
“Will you make me some coffee?” said Bennett.
“Why is he frightened of you?”
“How do I know? My dear, don’t ask so many questions. You worry me. He knows me, he’s seen me—that is all. Balder is held for murder. I think he is a very bad man.”
Later in the day she revived the subject of Maitland’s visit.
“I wish he would not come,” she said. “He frightens me.”
“He will not come again,” said John Bennett prophetically.
* * * * * *
The house in Berkeley Square which had passed into the possession of Ezra Maitland had been built by a nobleman to whom money had no significance. Loosely described as one of the show places of the Metropolis, very few outsiders had ever marvelled at the beauty of its interior. It was a palace, though none could guess as much from viewing its conventional exterior. In the gorgeous saloon, with its lapis-lazuli columns, its fireplaces of onyx and silver, its delicately panelled walls and silken hangings, Mr. Ezra Maitland sat huddled in a large Louis Quinze chair, a glass of beer before him, a blackened clay pipe between his gums. The muddy marks of his feet showed on the priceless Persian carpet; his hat half eclipsed a golden Venus of Marrionnet, which stood on a pedestal by his side. His hands clasped across his stomach, he glared from under his white eyebrows at the floor. One shaded lamp relieved the gloom, for the silken curtains were drawn and the light of day did not enter.
Presently, with an effort, he reached out, took the mug of beer, which had gone flat, and drained its contents. This done and the mug replaced, he sank back into his former condition of torpor. There was a gentle knock at the door and a footman came in, a man of powder and calves.
“Three gentlemen to see you, sir. Captain Gordon, Mr. Elk, and Mr. Johnson.”
The old man suddenly sat up.
“Johnson?” he said. “What does he want?”
“They are in the little drawing-room, sir.”
“Push them in,” growled the old man.
He seemed indifferent to the presence of the two police officers, and it was Johnson he addressed.
“What do you want?” he asked violently. “What do you mean by coming here?”
“It was my suggestion that Mr. Johnson should come,” said Dick.
“Oh, your suggestion, was it?” said the old man, and his attitude was strangely insolent compared with his dejection of the early morning.
Elk’s eyes fell upon the empty beer-mug, and he wondered how often that had been filled since Ezra Maitland had returned to the house. He guessed it had been employed fairly often, for there was a truculence in the ancient man’s tone, a defiance in his eye, which suggested something more than spiritual exaltation.
“I’m not going to answer any questions,” he said loudly. “I’m not going to tell any truth, and I’m not going to tell any lies.”
“Mr. Maitland,” said Johnson hesitatingly, “these gentlemen are anxious to know about the child.”
The old man closed his eyes.
“I’m not going to tell no truth and I’m not going to tell no lies,” he repeated monotonously.
“Now, Mr. Maitland,” said the good-humoured Elk, “forget your good resolution and tell us just why you lived in that slum of Eldor Street.”
“No truth and no lies,” murmured the old man. “You can lock me up but I won’t tell you anything. Lock me up. My name’s Ezra Maitland; I am a millionaire. I’ve got millions and millions and millions! I could buy you up and I could buy up mostly anybody! Old Ezra Maitland! I’ve been in the workhouse and I’ve been in quod.”
Dick and his companion exchanged glances, and Elk shook his head to signify the futility of further questioning the old man. Nevertheless, Dick tried again.
“Why did you go to Horsham this morning?” he asked, and could have bitten his tongue when he realized his blunder.
Instantly the old man was wide awake.
“I never went to Horsham,” he roared. “Don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m not going to tell you anything. Throw ’em out, Johnson.”
When they were in the street again, Elk asked a question.
“No, I’ve never known him to drink before,” said Johnson. “He has always been very abstemious so long as I’ve known him. I never thought I could persuade him to talk.”
“Nor did I,” said Dick Gordon—a statement which more than a little surprised the detective.
Dick signalled to the other to get rid of Johnson, and when that philosophical gentleman had been thanked and sent away, Dick Gordon spoke urgently.
“We must have two men in this house at once. What excuse can we offer for planting detectives on Maitland?”
Elk pursed his lips.
“I don’t know,” he confessed. “We shall have to get a warrant before we arrest him; we could easily get another warrant to search the house; but beyond that I fear we can’t go, unless he asks for protection.”
“Then put him under arrest,” said Dick promptly.
“What is the charge?”
“Hold him on suspicion of being associated with the Frogs, and if necessary move him to the nearest police-station. But it has to be done at once.”
Elk was perturbed.
“It isn’t a small matter to arrest a millionaire, you know, Captain Gordon. I daresay in America it is simple, and I am told you could pinch the President if you found him with a flask in his pocket. But here it is a little different.”
How very different it was, Dick discovered when he made application in private for the necessary warrants. At four o’clock they were delivered to him by the clerk of a reluctant magistrate, and, accompanied by police officers, he went back to Maitland’s palatial home.
The footman who admitted them said that Mr. Maitland was lying down and that he did not care to disturb him. In proof, he sent for a second footman, who confirmed the statement.
“Which is his room?” said Dick Gordon. “I am a police officer and I want to see him.”
“On the second floor, sir.”
He showed them to an electric lift, which carried the five to the second floor. Opposite the lift grille was a large double door, heavily burnished and elaborately gilded.
“Looks more like the entrance to a theatre,” said Elk in an undertone.
Dick knocked. There was no answer. He knocked louder. Still there was no answer. And then, to Elk’s surprise, the young man launched himself at the door with all his strength. There was a sound of splitting wood and the door parted. Dick stood in the entrance, rooted to the ground.
Ezra Maitland lay half on the bed, his legs dragging over the side. At his feet was the prostrate figure of the old woman whom he called Matilda. They were both dead, and the pungent fumes of cordite still hung in a blue cloud beneath the ceiling.