T. B. found the Chief Commissioner of Police at his club, and unfolded his plan.
The Chief looked grave.
"It might very easily lead to a horrible catastrophe if you carry that scheme into execution."
"It might very easily lead to a worse if I don't," said T. B. brutally. "I am too young to die. At the worst it can only be a 'police blunder,' such as you read about in every evening newspaper that's published," he urged, "and I look at the other side of the picture. If this woman communicates with her principals, nothing is more certain than that Thursday will see the blowing up of the Wady Semlik Barrage. These 'Nine Bears' are operating on the sure knowledge that Bronte's Bank is going to break. The stocks they are attacking are companies banking with Bronte, and it's ten chances to one they will kill Sir George Calliper in order to give an artistic finish to the failure."
The Commissioner bit his lip thoughtfully. "And," urged T. B. Smith, "the N.H.C. will be warned, and bang goes our only chance of bagging the lot!"
The Commissioner smiled.
"Your language, T. B.!" he deplored; then, "Do as you wish—but what about the real Mary Brown?"
"Oh, she can be sent on next week with apologies. We can get a new warrant if necessary."
"Where is she?"
"At Bow Street."
"No; I mean the Spanish lady?"
T. B. grinned.
"She's locked up in your office, sir," he said cheerfully.
The Commissioner said nothing, but T. B. declined to meet his eye.
At four o'clock the next morning, a woman attendant woke "La Belle Espagnole" from a fitful sleep, and a few minutes afterwards T. B., dressed for a journey and accompanied by a hard-faced wardress and a detective, came in.
"Where are you going to take me?" she demanded, but T. B.'s reply was not very informing.
A closed carriage deposited them at Euston in time to catch the early morning train.
In the compartment reserved for her and the wardress—it was a corridor carriage, and T. B. and his man occupied the next compartment—she found a dainty breakfast waiting for her, and a supply of literature. She slept the greater part of the journey and woke at the jolting of a shunting engine being attached to the carriage.
"Where are we?" she asked.
"We're there," was the cryptic reply of the woman attendant.
She was soon to discover, for, when the carriage finally came to a standstill and the door was opened, she stepped down onto a wind-swept quay. Ahead of her the great white hull of a steamer rose, and before she could realise the situation she had been hurried up the sloping gangway onto the deck.
Evidently T. B.'s night had been profitably spent, for he was expected. The purser met him.
"We got your telegrams," he said. "Is this the lady?"
T. B. nodded.
The purser led the way down the spacious companion.
"I have prepared 'C' suite," he said, and ushered the party into a beautifully appointed cabin.
She noticed that a steel grating had been newly fixed to the porthole, but that was the only indication of her captivity.
"I have enlisted the help of the stewardess," said T. B., "and you will find all the clothing you are likely to require for the voyage. I am also instructed to hand you £300. You will find your little library well stocked. I myself have denuded my own poor stock of French novels in order that you might not be dull."
"I understand that I am to be deported?" she said.
"That is an excellent understanding," he replied.
"By what authority?" she demanded. "It is necessary to obtain an order from the Court."
"For the next fourteen days, and until this ship reaches Jamaica, you will be Mary Brown, who was formally extradited last Saturday on a charge of fraud," said T. B. "If you are wise you will give no trouble, and nobody on board need have an inkling that you are a prisoner. You can enjoy the voyage, and at the end——"
"At the end?" she asked, seeing that he paused.
"At the end we shall discover our mistake," said T. B., "and you may return."
"I will summon the captain and demand to be put ashore!" she cried.
"A very natural request on the part of a prisoner," said T. B. meditatively, "but I doubt very much whether it would have any effect upon an unimaginative seaman."
He left her raging.
For the rest of the day he idled about the ship. ThePort Sybilwas due to leave at four o'clock, and when the first warning bell had sounded he went below to take his leave.
He found her much calmer.
"I would like to ask one question," she said. "It is not like the police to provide me with money, and to reserve such a cabin as this for my use—who is behind this?"
"I wondered whether you would ask that," said T. B. "Sir George was very generous——"
"Sir George Calliper!" she gasped. "You have not dared——"
"Yes, it needed some daring," admitted T. B., "to wake an eminent banker out of his beauty sleep to relate such a story as I had to tell—but he was very nice about it."
She brooded for some moments.
"You will be sorry for this," she said. "The Nine Men will know much sooner than you imagine."
"Before they know this they will know other things," he said. And with this utterance he left her.
He stood watching the great steamer moving slowly down the Mersey. He had left the wardress on board to make the voyage, and the other detective had remained to report.
As the vessel swung round a bend of the Mersey out of sight, he murmured flippantly:
"Next stop—Jamaica!"
T. B. reached his chambers at noon that day. He stopped to ask a question of the porter.
"Yes, sir," said that worthy, "he arrived all right with your card last night. I made him comfortable for the night, got him some supper, and told my mate who is on duty at night to look after him."
T. B. nodded. Declining the lift-boy's services, he mounted the marble stairs.
He reached the door of his flat and inserted the key.
"Now for Mr. Hyatt," he thought, and opened the door.
There was a little hallway to his chambers, in which the electric light still burned, in spite of the flood of sunlight that came from a long window at the end.
"Extravagant beggar!" muttered T. B.
The dining-room was empty, and the blinds were drawn, and here, too, the electric light was full on. There was a spare bedroom to the left, and to this T. B. made his way.
He threw open the door.
"Hyatt!" he called; but there was no answer, and he entered.
Hyatt lay on the bed, fully dressed. The handle of a knife protruded from his breast, and T. B., who understood these things, knew that the man had been dead for many hours.
* * * * * * *
Consols were up.
There was no doubt whatever about that fact, and the industrial market was a humming hive of industry.
Breweries, bakeries, and candlestick makeries—their shares bounded joyously as though a spirit, as of early spring, had entered into these inanimate and soulless things.
The mysterious "bears" were buying, buying, buying.
Frantically, recklessly buying.
Whatever coup had been contemplated by the Nine Men had failed, and their agents and brokers were working at fever heat to cover their losses.
It is significant that on the morning the boom started, there appeared in all the early editions of the evening newspapers one little paragraph. It appeared in the "late news" space and was condensed:
"Wady Barrage was handed over to Egyptian Government early this morning in presence of Minister of Works. Overnight rumours were prevalent that attempt made to destroy section dam by dynamite and that Italian named Soccori shot dead by sentry of West Kent Regiment in act of placing explosives on works. No official confirmation."
Interesting enough, but hardly to be associated by the crowd which thronged the approaches of the House with the rising market.
All day long the excitement in the city continued, all day long bareheaded clerks ran aimlessly—to all appearance—from 'Change to pavement, pavement to 'Change, like so many agitated ants.
Sir George Calliper, sitting alone in the magnificence of his private office, watched the "boom" thoughtfully, and wondered exactly what would have happened if "an Italian named Soccori" had succeeded in placing his explosive.
The echoes of the boom came to T. B. Smith in his little room overlooking the Thames Embankment, but brought him little satisfaction. The Nine Men had failed this time. Would they fail on the next occasion?
Who they were he could guess. From what centre they operated, he neither knew nor guessed. For T. B. they had taken on a new aspect. Hitherto they had been regarded merely as a band of dangerous and clever swindlers, Napoleonic in their method; now, they were murderers—dangerous, devilish men without pity or remorse.
The man Moss by some accident had been associated with them—a tool perhaps, but a tool who had surprised their secret. He was not the type of man who, of his own intelligence, would have made discoveries. He mentioned Hyatt and "the man on the Eiffel Tower." That might have been the wanderings of a dying man, but Hyatt had come to light.
Hyatt, with his curiously intellectual face; here, thought T. B., was the man, if any, who had unearthed the secret of the Nine.
Likely enough he shared confidence with Moss; indeed, there was already evidence in T. B.'s hands that the two men had business dealings. And the third—"the man on the Eiffel Tower"? Here T. B. came against a wall of improbability.
The room was a long one, full of dazzling islands of light where shaded lamps above the isolated sub-editors' desks threw their white circles. This room, too, was smirched with black shadows; there were odd corners where light never came. It never shone upon the big bookcase over the mantelpiece, or in the corner behind the man who conned the foreign exchanges, or on the nest of pigeonholes over against the chief "sub."
When he would refer to these he must needs emerge blinking from the blinding light in which he worked and go groping in the darkness for the needed memorandum.
He was sitting at his desk now, intent upon his work.
At his elbow stood a pad, on which he wrote from time to time.
Seemingly his task was an aimless one. He wrote nothing save the neat jottings upon his pad. Bundles of manuscript came to him, blue books, cuttings from other newspapers; these he looked at rather than read, looked at them in a hard, strained fashion, put them in this basket or that, as the fancy seized him, chose another bundle, stared at it, fluttered the leaves rapidly, and so continued. He had the appearance of a man solving some puzzle, piecing together intricate parts to make one comprehensive whole. When he hesitated, as he sometimes did, and seemed momentarily doubtful as to which basket a manuscript should be consigned, you felt the suggestion of mystery with which his movements were enveloped, and held your breath. When he had decided upon the basket you hoped for the best, but wondered vaguely what would have happened if he had chosen the other.
The door that opened into the tape-room was swinging constantly now, for it wanted twenty minutes to eleven. Five tickers chattered incessantly, and there was a constant procession of agency boys and telegraph messengers passing in and out the vestibule of the silent building. And the pneumatic tubes that ran from the front hall to the subs' room hissed and exploded periodically, and little leathern carriers rattled into the wire basket at the chief sub's elbow.
News! news! news!
A timber fire at Rotherhithe; the sudden rise in Consols; the Sultan of Turkey grants an amnesty to political offenders; a man kills his wife at Wolverhampton; a woman cyclist run down by a motor-car; the Bishop of Elford denounces Non-conformists——
News for to-morrow's breakfast table! intellectual stimulant for the weary people who are even now kicking off their shoes with a sleepy yawn and wondering whether there will be anything in the paper to-morrow.
A boy came flying through the swing door of the tape-room, carrying in his hand a slip of paper.
He laid it before the chief sub.
That restless man looked at it, then looked at the clock.
"Take it to Mr. Greene," he said shortly, and reached for the speaking-tube that connected him with the printer.
"There will be a three-column splash on page five," he said in a matter-of-fact voice.
"What's up?" His startled assistant was on his feet.
"A man found murdered in T. B. Smith's chambers," he said.
* * * * * * *
The inquest was over, the stuffy little court discharged its morbid public, jurymen gathered in little knots on the pavement permitted themselves to theorise, feeling, perhaps, that the official verdict of "murder against some person or persons unknown" needed amplification.
"My own opinion is," said the stout foreman, "that nobody could have done it, except somebody who could have got into his chambers unknown."
"That's my opinion, too," said another jury-man.
"I should have liked to add a rider," the foreman went on, "something like this: 'We call the coroner's attention to the number of undiscovered murders nowadays, and severely censure the police,' but he wouldn't have it."
"They 'ang together," said a gloomy little man; "p'lice and coroners and doctors, they 'ang together, there's corruption somewhere. I've always said it."
"Here's a feller murdered," the foreman went on, "in a detective's room, the same detective that's in charge of the Moss murder. We're told his name's Hyatt, we're told he was sent to that room by the detective whilst he's engaged in some fanciful business in the north—is that sense?"
"Then there's theJournal," interrupted the man of gloom, "it comes out this mornin' with a cock-an'-bull story about these two murders being connected with the slump—why, there ain't any slump! The market went up the very day this chap Hyatt was discovered."
"Sensation," said the foreman, waving deprecating hands, "newspaper sensation. Any lie to sell the newspapers, that's their motto."
The conversation ended abruptly, as T. B. Smith appeared at the entrance of the court. His face was impassive, his attire, as usual, immaculate, but those who knew him best detected signs of worry.
"For Heaven's sake," he said to a young man who approached him, "don't talk to me now—you beggar, your wretched rag has upset all my plans."
"But, Mr. Smith," pleaded the reporter. "What we said was true, wasn't it?"
"'A lie that is half the truth,'" quoted T. B. solemnly.
"But it is true—there is some connection between the murders and the slump, and, I say, do your people know anything about the mysterious disappearance of that dancing girl from the Philharmonic?"
"Oh, child of sin!" T. B. shook his head reprovingly. "Oh, collector of romance!"
"One last question," said the reporter. "Do you know a man named Escoltier?"
"Not," said T. B. flippantly, "from a crow—why? is he suspected of abducting your dancing lady?"
"No," said the reporter, "he's suspected of pulling our editor's leg."
T. B. was all this time walking away from the court, and the reporter kept step with him.
"And what is the nature of his hoax?" demanded T. B.
He was not anxious for information, but he was very desirous of talking about nothing—it had been a trying day for him.
"Oh, the usual thing; wants to tell us the greatest crime that ever happened—a great London crime that the police have not discovered."
"Dear me!" said T. B. politely, "wants payment in advance?"
"No; that's the curious thing about it," said the reporter. "All he wants is protection."
T. B. stopped dead and faced the young man. He dropped the air of boredom right away.
"Protection?" he said quickly, "from whom?"
"That is just what he doesn't say—in fact, he's rather vague on that point—why don't you go up and see Delawn, the editor?"
T. B. thought a moment.
"Yes," he nodded. "That is an idea. I will go at once."
In the holy of holies, the inner room within the inner room, wherein the editor of the London Morning Journal saw those visitors who were privileged to pass the outer portal, T. B. Smith sat, a sorely puzzled man, a scrap of disfigured paper in his hands.
He read it again and looked up at the editor.
"This might of course be a fake," he said.
"It doesn't read like a fake," said the other.
"Admitting your authority on the subject of fakes, Tom," said T. B.,—they were members of the same club, which fact in itself is a license for rudeness,—"I am still in the dark. Why does this—what is his name?"
"Escoltier."
"Why does this man Escoltier write to a newspaper, instead of coming straight to the police?"
"Because he is a Frenchman, I should imagine," said the editor. "The French have the newspaper instinct more highly developed than the English."
T. B. looked at his watch.
"Will he come, do you think?"
"I have wired to him," said the editor.
T. B. read the paper again. It was written in execrable English, but its purport was clear.
The writer could solve the mystery of Hyatt's death, and for the matter of that of the Moss murder.
T. B. read it and shook his head.
"This sort of thing is fairly common," he said; "there never was a bad murder yet, but what the Yard received solutions by the score."
A little bell tinkled on the editor's desk, and he took up the receiver of the telephone.
"Yes?" he said, and listened. Then, "Send him up."
"Is it——"
"Monsieur Escoltier," said the editor.
A few seconds later the door was opened, and a man was ushered into the room. Short and thick-set, with a two days' growth of beard on his chin, his nationality was apparent long before he spoke in theargotof the lowly born Parisian.
His face was haggard, his eyes heavy from lack of sleep, and the hand that strayed to his mouth shook tremulously.
"I have to tell you," he began, "about M'sieur Moss and M'sieur Hyatt." His voice was thick, and as he spoke he glanced from side to side as though fearful of observation. There was something in his actions that vividly reminded the detective of his interview with Hyatt. "You understand," the man went on incoherently, "that I had long suspected N.H.C.—it was always so unintelligible. There was no such station and——"
"You must calm yourself, monsieur," said T. B., speaking in French; "begin at the beginning, for as yet my friend and myself are entirely in the dark. What is N.H.C., and what does it mean?"
It was some time before the man could be brought to a condition of coherence. The editor pushed him gently to the settee that ran the length of the bay window of his office.
"Wait," said the journalist, and unlocking a drawer, he produced a silver flask.
"Drink some of this," he said.
The man raised the brandy to his lips with a hand that shook violently, and drank eagerly.
"C'est bien," he muttered, and looked from one to the other.
"I tell you this story because I am afraid to go to the police—they are watching the police office——"
"In the first place, who are you?" demanded T. B.
"As to who and what I am," said the stranger, nodding his head to emphasise his words, "it would be better that I should remain silent."
"I do not see the necessity," said the detective calmly. "So far as I can judge from what information I have, you are a French soldier—an engineer. You are a wireless telegraph operator, and your post of duty is on the Eiffel Tower."
The man stared at the speaker, and his jaw dropped.
"M'sieur!" he gasped.
"Hyatt was also a wireless operator; probably in the employ of the Marconi Company in the west of England. Between you, you surprised the secret of a mysterious agency which employs wireless installations to communicate with its agents. What benefits you yourself may have derived from your discovery I cannot say. It is certain that Hyatt, operating through Moss, made a small fortune; it is equally certain that, detecting a leakage, the 'Nine Men' have sent a clever agent to discover the cause——"
But the man from the Eiffel Tower had fainted.
"I shall rely on you to keep the matter an absolute secret until we are ready," said T. B., and the editor nodded. "The whole scheme came to me in a flash. The Eiffel Tower! Who lives on the Eiffel Tower? Wireless telegraph operators. Our friend is recovering."
He looked down at the pallid man lying limply in an armchair.
"I am anxious to know what brings him to London. Fright, I suppose. It was the death of Moss that brought Hyatt, the killing of Hyatt that produced Monsieur Escoltier."
The telegraphist recovered consciousness with a shiver and a groan. For a quarter of an hour he sat with his face hidden in his hands. Another pull at the editor's flask aroused him to tell his story—a narrative which is valuable as being the first piece of definite evidence laid against the Nine Bears.
He began hesitatingly, but as the story of his complicity was unfolded he warmed to his task. With the true Gaul's love for the dramatic, he declaimed with elaborate gesture and sonorous phrase the part he had played.
"My name is Jules Escoltier, I am a telegraphist in the corps of engineers. On the establishment of the wireless telegraphy station on the Eiffel Tower in connection with the Casa Blanca affair, I was appointed one of the operators. Strange as it may sound, one does not frequently intercept messages, but I was surprised a year ago to find myself taking code despatches from a station which called itself 'N.H.C.' There is no such station known, so far as I am aware, and copies of the despatches which I forwarded to my superiors were always returned to me as 'non-decodable.'
"One day I received a message in English, which I can read. It ran—
"'All those who know N.H.C. call H.A,'
"Although I did not know who N.H.C. was, I had the curiosity to look up H.A. on the telegraph map, and found it was the Cornish Marconi Station. Taking advantage of the absence of my officer, I sent a wireless message, 'I desire information, L.L.' That is not the Paris 'indicator,' but I knew that I should get the reply. I had hardly sent the message when another message came. It was from Monsieur Hyatt. I got the message distinctly—'Can you meet me in London on the 9th, Gallini's Restaurant?' To this I replied, 'No, impossible.' After this I had a long talk with the Cornishman, and then it was that he told me that his name was Hyatt. He told me that he was able to decode the N.H.C. messages, that he had a book, and that it was possible to make huge sums of money from the information contained in them. I thought that it was very indiscreet to speak so openly, and told him so.
"He asked me for my name, and I gave it, and thereafter I regularly received letters from him, and a correspondence began.
"Not beingau faitin matters affecting the Bourse, I did not know of what value the information we secured from N.H.C. could be, but Hyatt said he had a friend who was interested in such matters, and that if I 'took off' all N.H.C. messages that I got, and repeated them to him, I should share in the proceeds. I was of great value to Hyatt, because I received messages that never reached him in this way. He was able to keep in touch with all the operations on which N.H.C. were engaged.
"By arrangement, we met in Paris—Hyatt, his friend of the London Bourse, Monsieur Moss, and myself, and Hyatt handed to me notes for 20,000 francs (£800); that was the first payment I received from him. He returned to England, and things continued in very much the same way as they had done, I receiving and forwarding N.H.C. messages. I never understood any of them, but Hyatt was clever, and he had discovered the code and worked it out.
"About a fortnight ago I received from him 3,000 francs in notes, a letter that spoke of a great coup contemplated by N.H.C. 'If this materialises,' he wrote, 'I hope to send you half a million francs by the end of next week.'
"The next morning I received this message——"
He fumbled in his pocket and produced a strip of paper, on which was hastily scrawled—
"From N.H.C. to L.L. Meet me in London on the sixth, Charing Cross Station."
"It was, as you see, in French, and as it came I scribbled it down. I would have ignored it, but that night I got a message from Hyatt saying that N.H.C. had discovered we shared their secret and had offered to pay us £5,000 each to preserve silence, and that as they would probably alter the code I should be a fool not to accept. So I got leave of absence and bought a suit of clothing, left Paris, and arrived in London the following night. A dark young man met me at the station, and invited me to come home with him.
"He had a motor-car at the entrance of the station, and after some hesitation I accepted. We drove through the streets filled with people, for the theatres were just emptying, and after an interminable ride we reached the open country. I asked him where was Hyatt, and where we were going, but he refused to speak. When I pressed him, he informed me he was taking me to a rendezvous near the sea.
"We had been driving for close on three hours, when we reached a lonely lane. By the lights of the car I could see a steep hill before us, and I could hear the roar of the waves somewhere ahead.
"Suddenly he threw a lever over, the car bounded forward, and he sprang to the ground.
"Before I could realise what had happened, the machine was flying down the steep gradient, rocking from side to side.
"I have sufficient knowledge of motor-car engineering to manipulate a car, and I at once sprang to the wheel and felt for the brake. But both foot and hand brake were useless. In some manner he had contrived to disconnect them.
"It was pitch-dark, and all that I could hope to do was to keep the car to the centre of the road. Instinctively I knew that I was rushing to certain death, and, messieurs, I was! I was flying down a steep gradient to inevitable destruction, for at the bottom of the hill the road turned sharply, and confronting me, although I did not know this, was a stone sea wall.
"I resolved on taking my life in my hands, and putting the car at one of the steep banks which ran on either side, I turned the steering wheel and shut my eyes. I expected instant death. Instead, the car bounded up at an angle that almost threw me from my seat. I heard the crash of wood, and flying splinters struck my neck, and the next thing I remember was a series of bumps as the car jolted over a ploughed field.
"I had achieved the impossible. At the point I had chosen to leave the road was a gate leading to a field, and by an act of Providence I had found the only way of escape.
"I found myself practically at the very edge of the sea, and in my first terror I would have given every sou I had to escape to France. All night long I waited by the broken car, and with the dawn some peasants came and told me I was only five miles distant from Dover. I embraced the man who told me this, and would have hired a conveyance to drive me to Dover,en routefor France. I knew that N.H.C. could trace me, and then I was anxious to get in touch with Hyatt and Moss. Then it was that I saw in an English newspaper that Moss was dead."
He stopped and moistened his lips.
"M'sieur!" he went on with a characteristic gesture, "I decided that I would come to London and find Hyatt. I took train, but I was watched. At a little junction called Sandgate, a man sauntered past my carriage. I did not know him, he looked like an Italian. As the train left the station something smashed the window and I heard a thud. There was no report, but I knew that I had been fired at with an air-gun, for the bullet I found embedded in the woodwork of the carriage."
"Did nothing further happen?" asked T. B.
"Nothing till I reached Charing Cross, then when I stopped to ask a policeman to direct me to the Central Police Bureau I saw a man pass me in a motor-car, eyeing me closely. It was the man who had tried to kill me."
"And then?"
"Then I saw my danger. I was afraid of the police. I saw a newspaper sheet. It was a great newspaper—I wrote a letter—and sought lodgings in a little hotel near the river. There was no answer to my letter. I waited in hiding for two days before I realised that I had given no address. I wrote again. All this time I have been seeking Hyatt. I have telegraphed to Cornwall, but the reply comes that he is not there. Then in the newspaper I learn of his death. M'sieur, I am afraid."
He wiped the drops of sweat from his forehead with a shaky hand.
He was indeed in a pitiable condition of fright, and T. B., upon whose nerves the mysterious "bears" were already beginning to work, appreciated his fear without sharing it.
There came a knock at the outer door of the office, and the editor moved to answer it.
There was a whispered conversation at the door, the door closed again, and the editor returned with raised brows.
"T. B.," he said, "that wretched market has gone again."
"Gone?"
"Gone to blazes! Spanish Fours are so low that you'd get pain in your back if you stooped to pick them up."
T. B. nodded.
"I'll use your telephone," he said, and stooped over the desk. He called for a number, and after an interval—
"Yes—that you, Maitland? Go to 375 St. John Street, and take into custody Count Ivan Poltavo on a charge of murder. Take with you fifty men and surround the place. Detain every caller, and every person you find in the house."
He hung up the receiver. "It is a bluff, as my gay American friend says," he remarked to the editor, "because, of course, I have no real evidence against him. But I want a chance to ransack that studio of his, anyway.
"Now, my friend," he said in French, "what shall we do with you?"
The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders listlessly.
"What does it matter?" he said. "They will have me—it is only a matter of hours."
"I take a brighter view," said T. B. cheerily; "you shall walk with us to Scotland Yard and there you shall be taken care of."
But the Frenchman shrank back.
"Come, there is no danger," smiled T. B.
Reluctantly the engineer accompanied the detective and the editor from the building. A yellow fog lay like a damp cloth over London, and the Thames Embankment was almost deserted.
"Do you think he followed you here?" asked T. B.
"I am sure." The Frenchman looked from left to right in an agony of apprehension. "He killed Hyatt and he killed Moss—of that I am certain—and now——"
A motor-car loomed suddenly through the fog, coming from the direction of Northumberland Avenue, and overtook them. A man leant out of the window as the car swept abreast. His face was masked and his actions were deliberate.
"Look out!" cried the editor and clutched the Frenchman's arm.
The pistol that was levelled from the window of the car cracked twice and T. B. felt the wind of the bullets as they passed his head.
Then the car disappeared into the mist, leaving behind three men, one half fainting with terror, one immensely pleased with the novel sensation—our editor, you may be sure—and one using language unbecoming to an Assistant-Commissioner of Police.
The house in St. John Street had been raided. In a little room on the top floor there was evidence that an instrument of some considerable size had been hastily dismantled. Broken ends of wire were hanging from the wall, and one other room on the same floor was packed with storage batteries. Pursuing their investigations, the detectives ascended to the roof through a trap door. Here was the flagstaff and the arrangement for hoisting the wires. Apparently, night was usually chosen for the reception and despatch of messages. By night, the taut strands of wire would not attract attention. Only in cases of extremest urgency were they employed in daylight.
Count Poltavo was gone—vanished, in spite of the fact that every railway terminus in London had been watched, every ocean-going passenger scrutinised.
Van Ingen had been given two days to get the "book"; this code which the unfortunate Hyatt had deciphered to his undoing. Moss had said Hyatt's sister had it, but the country had been searched from end to end for Hyatt's sister. It had not been difficult to trace her. Van Ingen, after half-an-hour's search in Falmouth, had discovered her abode, but the girl was not there.
"She left for London yesterday," he was informed.
From that moment Miss Hyatt had disappeared.
A telegram had reached her on the very day of Hyatt's death. It said "Come."
There was no name, no address. The telegram had been handed in at St. Martin's-le-Grand; unearthed, it was found to be in typewritten characters, and the address at its back a fictitious one.
One other item of news Van Ingen secured; there had been a lady on the same errand as himself. "A foreign lady," said the good folks of Falmouth.
He had some two days to discover Eva Hyatt—this was her name.
He paced the room, his head sunk on his breast.
Where was the girl?
The telegram said "Come." It suggested some prearranged plan in which the girl had acquiesced; she was to leave Falmouth and go somewhere.
Suppose she had come to London, where would Catherine Dominguez have placed her? Near at hand; a thought struck Van Ingen. Smith had told him the tale of the deportation of the dancing girl. He would search her flat. He took down his overcoat and struggled into it, made a selection of keys from his pocket, and went out. It was a forlorn hope, but forlorn hopes had often been the runners of victory, and there was nothing to be lost by trying.
He came to the great hall of the mansion in Baker Street and asked the number of the dancer's flat.
The hall porter touched his cap.
"Evening, sir." Then, "I suppose you know the young lady hasn't come back yet?"
Van Ingen did know, but said nothing. The porter was in a talkative mood.
"She sent me a wire from Liverpool, saying that she'd been called away suddenly."
The young man nodded. He knew this, too, for T. B. had sent the wire.
"What the other young lady couldn't understand," continued the porter, and Van Ingen's heart gave a leap, "was, why——"
"Why she hadn't wired her, eh?" he asked. "Well, you see, she was so busy——"
"Of course!" The porter clucked his lips impatiently.
"She's upstairs in Miss Dominguez' flat at this moment. My word, she's been horribly worried——"
"I'll go up and see her. As a matter of fact, I've come here for the purpose," said Van Ingen quickly.
He took the lift to the second floor, and walked along the corridor. He reached No. 43 and his hand was raised to press the little electric bell of the suite when the door opened quickly and a girl stepped out. She gave a startled cry as she saw the stranger, and drew back.
"I beg your pardon," said Van Ingen, with a pleasant smile. "I'm afraid I startled you."
She was a big florid girl with a certain awkwardness of movement.
"Well-dressed butgauche," thought Van Ingen. "Provincial! she'll talk."
"I was a little startled," she said, with a ready smile. "I thought it was the postman."
"But surely postmen do not deliver letters in this palatial dwelling," he laughed. "I thought the hall porter——"
"Oh, but this is a registered letter," she said importantly, "from America."
All the time Van Ingen was thinking out some method by which he might introduce the object of his visit. An idea struck him.
"Is your mother—" she looked blank, "er—aunt within?" he asked.
He saw the slow suspicion gathering on her face.
"I'm not a burglar," he smiled, "in spite of my alarming question, but I'm in rather a quandary. I've a friend—well, not exactly a friend—but I have business with Miss Dominguez, and——"
"Here's the postman," she interrupted.
A quick step sounded in the passage, and the bearer of the king's mails, with a flat parcel in his hand and his eyes searching the door numbers, stopped before them.
"Hyatt?" he asked, glancing at the address.
"Yes," said the girl; "is that my parcel?"
"Yes, miss; will you sign?"
"Hyatt?" murmured Van Ingen; "what an extraordinary coincidence. You are not by any chance related to the unfortunate young man the story of whose sad death has been filling the newspapers?"
She flushed and her lip trembled.
"He was my brother; did you know him?"
"I knew of him," said Van Ingen quietly, "but I did not know you lived in London!"
"Nor do I," said the girl; "it is only by the great kindness of Miss Dominguez that I am here."
There was no time for delicate finesse.
"Will you let me come in and talk with you?" Van Ingen said; then, as he saw again the evidence of her suspicion, "What I have to ask you is of the greatest importance to you and to me."
She hesitated, then led the way into a handsomely furnished sitting-room.
"First of all," said Van Ingen quietly, "you must tell me how Miss Dominguez found you."
"She came to Falmouth and sought me out. It was not difficult. I have a little millinery establishment there, and my name is well known. She came one morning, eight days—no—yes, it was seven days ago, and——"
"What did she want?"
"She said she had known Charles; he had some awfully swagger friends; that is what got him into trouble at the post-office; it was a great blow to us, because——"
"What did she want?" asked Van Ingen, cutting short the loquacity.
"She said that Charles had something of hers—a book which she had lent him, years before. Now, the strange thing was that on the very day poor Charles was killed I had a telegram which ran: 'If anything happens, tell Escoltier book is at Antaxia, New York.' It was unsigned, and I did not connect it with Charles. You see, I hadn't heard from him for years.
"She was a great friend of Charles'—the Spanish lady—and she came down especially about the book. She said Charles had got into trouble and she wanted the book to save him. Then I showed her the telegram. I was confused, but I wanted to help Charles." She gulped down a sob. "I asked her who Escoltier was."
"Yes?" asked Van Ingen quickly.
"She said he was a friend of hers who was interested in the book. She went away, but came back soon afterwards and told me that 'Antaxia' was the telegraphic address of a safe deposit in New York. She was very nice and offered to pay for a cable to the deposit. So I wired: 'Please forward by registered post the book deposited by Charles Hyatt'; and I signed it 'Eva Hyatt' and gave my address. By the evening the reply came: 'Forwarded; your previous wire did not comply with our instructions.'"
"I see," said Van Ingen.
"Well, that is more than I can," said the girl, with a smile, "because only one wire was sent. Miss Dominguez was surprised, too, and a little annoyed, and said: 'How foolish it was of me not to ask you your Christian name.' Well, then she insisted upon my coming to stay with her till the book came. I came expecting I should find Charles, but—but——"
Her eyes were filled with tears.
"I read in a newspaper that he was dead. It was the first thing I saw in London, the bill of a newspaper——"
Van Ingen gave her time to recover her voice.
"And Miss Dominguez?"
"She took this furnished flat near to hers," said the girl; "she lives here——"
"Does she?" asked Van Ingen artlessly. He took up the registered parcel which she had put on the table.
It was fairly light.
"Now, Miss Hyatt," he said, very gently. "I want you to do something for me; and I must tell you that, although I ask it as a favour, I can enforce my wishes as a right."
"I will do anything," said the girl eagerly.
"Very well; you must let me take this book away."
"But it is not mine; it belongs to Miss Dominguez," she protested; "and it is to save my brother's name——"
"Miss Hyatt," said Van Ingen, "I must take this book which has so providentially come into my hands, not to save your brother's name, but to bring to justice the men who took his life."
As he spoke there came a knock at the door; and, hastily drying her eyes, the girl opened it.
A porter handed her a telegram, and she came back into the light of the room to open it.
She read it, and reread it; then looked at Van Ingen with bewilderment written on her face.
"What does this mean?" she said.
He took the telegram from her hand; it had been readdressed from Falmouth and ran:
"By wireless from Port Sybil. Do not part with book to anybody on any account.
"CATHERINE DOMINGUEZ."
He handed the telegram back.
"It means," he said, "that our friend is just two minutes too late."
"This business is a little too hot to hold," said the editor in a final interview with T. B., who had persuaded him to keep back his story, until he had bagged the "Nine Men." "To-night I must tell the whole of the affair."
T. B. nodded.
"To-night," said T. B., "you can tell what you like. I shall have played my stake for good or ill.
"I have been talking with Escoltier; we have got him lodged in Scotland Yard—though you needn't mention that fact in your account—and I think we know enough now to trap the 'Nine Men.'"
"Who are they and what does the 'C.' stand for in 'N.H.C.'?"
"I can only guess," said T. B cautiously. "Do you know anything about wireless telegraphy?" he demanded.
"Not much," admitted the editor.
"Well, you know enough to realise that the further you wish to communicate the more electrical energy you require?"
"That much I understand," said the journalist. "The principle is the 'rings on the pond.' You throw a stone into still water, and immediately rings grow outward. The bigger the stone, the farther-reaching the rings."
"At Poldhu," continued T. B., "Hyatt was in charge of the long-distance instrument. As a matter of fact, the work he was engaged on was merely experimental, but his endeavour seemed to be centred in securing the necessary energy for communicating 900 miles. Of course, wireless telegraphy is practicable up to and beyond 3,000 miles, but few installations are capable of transmitting that distance."
"So 'C.' is, you think, within 900 miles of Cornwall?"
T. B. nodded.
"I have a feeling that I know 'C.,'" he said. "I have another feeling that these wireless messages do not come from 'C.' at all, but from a place adjacent. However,"—he took from his pocket a flat exercise book filled with closely written columns of words and figures—"we shall see."
He took a cab from Fleet Street; and, arriving at the block of Government buildings which shelters the Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty, he entered its gloomy doors.
A messenger came forward to enquire his business, but was forestalled by a keen little man with tanned face and twinkling eyes. "Sailor" was written on every line of his mahogany face. "Hullo, my noble policeman," he greeted T. B. "Who is the victim—the First Sea Lord or the Controller of the Victualling Department?"
"To be precise, Almack," said T. B., "I have come to arrest Reform, which I gather——"
"No politics," smiled Captain John Almack, R.N. "What is the game?"
"It is what our mutual friend Napoleon would call a negative problem in strategy," the Assistant-Commissioner replied. "I want to ask an ethereal friend, who exists somewhere in space, to come in and be killed."
Captain Almack led the way up a flight of stairs.
"We got a request from your Commissioner; and, of course, the Lords of the Admiralty are only too pleased to put the instrument at your disposal."
"They are very charming," murmured T. B.
"They instructed me to keep a watchful eye on you. We have missed things since your last visit."
"That sounds like a jovial lie," said T. B. frankly.
In the orderly instrument room they found an operator in attendance, and T. B. lost no time.
"Call N.H.C," he said; and, whilst the instrument clicked and snapped obedient to the man's hand, T. B. opened his little exercise book and composed a message. He had finished his work long before any answer came to the call. For half-an-hour they waited whilst the instrument clicked monotonously. "Dash-dot, dot-dot-dot, dash-dot-dash-dot."
And over and over again.
"Dash-dot, dot-dot-dot, dash-dot-dash-dot."
Then suddenly the operator stopped, and there came a new sound.
They waited in tense silence.
"Answered," said the operator.
"Take this." T. B. handed him a slip of paper.
As the man sent the message out with emphatic tappings, Captain Almack took the translation that T. B. handed to him.
"To N.H.C. There is trouble here. I must see you. Important. Can you meet me in Paris to-morrow?"
After this message had gone through there was a wait of five minutes. Then the answer came, and the man at the instrument wrote down unintelligible words which T. B. translated.
"Impossible. Come to M. Will meet S.E. Have you got the book?"
"Reply 'Podaba,'" instructed T. B., spelling the word. "Now send this." He handed another slip of paper across the table, and passed the translation back to the man behind him.
"Is Gibraltar intercepting messages?"
it ran. Again the wait, and again the staccato reply.
"Unlikely, but will send round to-morrow to make sure. Good-night."
As the instrument clicked its farewell, T. B. executed a silent war-dance to the scandal of the solemn operator, and the delight of the little captain.
"T. B., you'll get me hung!" he warned. "You'll upset all kinds of delicate instruments, to say nothing of the telegraphist's sense of decency. Come away."
"Now," demanded Captain Almack, when he had led him to his snug little office; "what is the mystery?"
T. B. related as much of the story as was necessary, and the officer whistled.
"The devils!" he swore.
"The discovery I was trying to make," T. B. went on, "was the exact location of N.H.C. I asked him or them to come to Paris. As a matter of fact, I wanted to know if they were within twenty-four hours' distance of Paris. 'Impossible,' they reply. But they will come to Madrid, and offer to meet the Sud Express. So they must be in Spain and south of Madrid, otherwise there would be no impossibility about meeting me in Paris to-morrow. Where are they? Within reach of Gibraltar apparently, because they talk of sending round to-morrow. Now, that phrase 'sending round' is significant, for it proves beyond the shadow of a doubt exactly in what part of Andalusia they live."
"How?"
"When people who live within reach of the fortress talk of going to Gibraltar, as you know they either say that they are 'going across to Gibraltar' or that they are 'going round.' By the first, they indicate the routeviaAlgeciras and across the bay; by the latter, they refer to the journey by way of Cadiz and Tangier——"
"Cadiz!"
The exclamation came from his hearer.
"Cadiz," repeated T. B. He bent his head forward and rested it for a moment in his hands. When he lifted it, his face was grave.
"It's worth trying," he muttered. "And," he continued aloud, "it will be bringing down two birds with one stone."
"Can I use the instrument again?" he asked.
"Certainly," said the officer readily.
T. B. rose.
"I'm going to Scotland Yard, and I shall not be away for more than ten minutes," he said; and in a few seconds he was crossing Whitehall at a run.
He passed through the entrance and made straight for the big bureau, where day in and day out the silent recorder sat with his pen, his cabinets, and his everlastingdossier.
T. B. knew he would be there, because there was a heavy calendar at the Old Bailey, and the silent man was working far into the night—arranging, sorting, and rearranging.
The detective was back at the Admiralty within the ten minutes, and together the two made their way to the instrument room.
"N.H.C." responded almost at once, and T. B. sent his message.
"Tell George T. Baggin that another warrant has been issued for his arrest."
The reply came immediately.
"Thanks. Get further particulars, but do not use names."
T. B. read the reply and handed it without a word to the other.
"Please God, I'll hang the man who sent that message," he said with unusual earnestness.
It was half-past nine when T. B. sent and received the last message; and an hour later he had interviewed the Commissioner.
"Get your lady away all right?" his chief greeted him.
"Well away, sir," said T. B. serenely. "Out of reach of Poltavo—his agents were watching the flat—there was a burglary there the very night the book arrived."
"And the lady?"
"She is due in Jamaica in a few days."
"And now——"
T. B. told the story of the developments.
The Commissioner nodded from time to time.
"You're an ingenious young man," he said. "One of these fine days somebody will badly want your blood."
"It has often happened," T. B. granted.
He sat over a companionable cigar and a whisky and soda, talking until the hands of the clock were near on midnight; then he rose to take his leave.
"You will leave for Spain to-morrow?" asked the chief.
"Yes; by the first train. I shall take Van Ingen with me; he speaks Spanish with ease, while I can only blunder through with a phrase or two. I can get the warrants from the Yard before I leave," he continued, "and the Spanish authorities will give me all the help I need."
"And what of Poltavo?" asked the Chief Commissioner.
T. B. shrugged his shoulders.
"We had a murderer there," he said. "I am satisfied that he killed Moss. Whether he actually stabbed Hyatt, I am not sure. The man had such a perfect organisation in London that it is possible that one of his cutthroat friends served him in the case of that unfortunate young man. Count Poltavo can wait. If we get the others, we shall get him. He has powerful friends; we must move with caution.
"Good-night, sir."
He grasped the proffered hand, and his host ushered him into the silent street.
He took two steps forward, when a man rose apparently from the ground, and two shots rang out. T. B. had drawn his revolver and fired from his hip, and his assailant staggered back cursing as a dark shadow came running from the opposite side of the road to his help.
Then T. B. swayed, his knees bent under him, and he fell back into the Commissioner's arms.
"I'm done," he said, and the third man, hesitating a moment in the roadway, heard the words and slipped his revolver back into his pocket and fled.
The streets of Cadiz were deserted. Only by the Quay was there any sign of life, for here the crew of the Brazilian warship, theMaria Braganza, were languidly embarking stores on flat-bottomed lighters, and discussing, with a wealth of language and in no complimentary terms, the energy of their commander. It was obvious, so they said in their picturesque language, that a warship was never intended to carry cargo, and if the Brazilian Government was foolish enough to purchase war stores in Spain, it should go a little farther, and charter a Spanish merchant ship to carry them.
So they cursed Captain Lombrosa for a dog and the son of a dog, and predicted for him an eternity of particular discomfort.
Captain Lombrosa, a short, swarthy man, knew nothing of his unpopularity and probably cared less. He was sitting in the Café of the Five Nations, near the Plaza Mayor, picking his teeth thoughtfully and reading from time to time the cablegram from his Government which informed him that certain defalcations of his had been discovered by the paymaster-general of the navy, and demanding peremptorily his return to Rio de Janeiro.
To say that Captain Lombrosa was unperturbed would be to exaggerate. No man who builds his house upon sand can calmly regard the shifting foundations of his edifice. But he was not especially depressed, for many reasons. The Government had merely anticipated events by a week or so.
He read the cablegram with its pencilled decodation, smiled sadly, put up his feet on a chair, and called for another bottle of Rioja.
There is an unlovely road through the dreary waste that leads from Cadiz to San Fernando. Beyond the city and beyond the Arsenal the road winds through the bleak salt marshes to Jerez, that Xeres de la Frontera which has given its name to the amber wine of Spain.
A solitary horseman cantered into San Fernando, his clothing white with brackish dust. He drew rein before the Café Cruz Blanca and dismounted, an untidy barefooted boy leading his horse away.
There were few people in the saloon of the café, for a chill wind was abroad, and thecappais a very poor protection against the icy breezes that blow from the Sierras.
A man greeted the horseman as he entered—a stout man with bulging cheeks and puffy eyes. He breathed wheezily, and his hands moved with a strange restlessness.
They hailed each other in the Andalusian dialect, and the newcomer ordered "Café c'leche."
"Well, friend?" asked the stout man, when the waiter had disappeared. "What is the news?"
He spoke in English.
"The best," replied the other in the same language. "T. B. is finished."
"No!"
"It's a fact. Ramundo shot him at close range, but the devil went down fighting. They've got Ramundo."
The fat man snorted.
"Isn't that dangerous?" he asked.
"For us, no; for him, yes," said the man carelessly. "Ramundo knows nothing except that he has been living in the lap of luxury in London on the wages of an unknown employer."
"What will he get?" asked the stout man nervously.
The man looked at him curiously.
"You are getting jumpy, friend Grayson," he said coolly.
"I am getting sick of this life," said Grayson. "We're making money by the million, but what is the use of it? We are dogs that dare not show our noses abroad; we're exiled and damned, and there is no future."
"You might as well be here as in prison," philosophised his friend. "And in prison you most certainly would be, if not worse——"
"We had no hand in the murders," interrupted Grayson pleadingly. "Now did we, Baggin?"
"I know little about the English law," drawled George T. Baggin, sometime treasurer of the London, Manhattan, and Jersey Securities Syndicate. "But such knowledge as I have enables me to say with certainty that we should be hanged—sure."
The fat man collapsed, mopping his brow.
"Ramundo killed one and Poltavo the other," he mumbled. "What about Poltavo?"
"He was standing by when T. B. was shot; but, as soon as he saw the policeman was down and out, he skipped. He arrives to-night."
Some thought came to him which was not quite agreeable, for he frowned.
"Poltavo, of course, knows," he went on meditatively. "Poltavo is one with us."
"He has been a valuable member," ventured Grayson.
"Had been," said the other, emphasising the first word.
"What do you mean? Was it not he who established our stations and got the right men to work 'em? Why, he has got the whole thing at his fingers' ends."
"Yes," agreed Baggin, with a wry smile. "And he has us at his fingers' ends also—where are our friends?—the other matter I have arranged without calling in Poltavo."
"They are returning to-night." The fat man shifted uncomfortably. "You were saying about this T. B. fellow—he is dead?"
"Not dead, but nearly; Poltavo saw him carried into the house, and a little later an ambulance came flying to the door. He saw him carried out. Later he enquired at the hospital—sent in his card, if you please—and found that Smith was shot through the shoulder."
Grayson lowered his voice.
"Is Poltavo——" He did not complete his sentence.
"He's dangerous. I tell you, Grayson, we are on tender ice; there's a crackling and a creaking in the air."
Grayson licked his dry lips.
"I've been having dreams lately," he rumbled. "Horrid dreams about prisons——"
"Oh, cut it out!" said Baggin. "There's no time for fool dreaming. I'm going to the committee to-night; you back me up. Hullo!"
A beggar had sidled into the café in the waiter's absence. He moved with the furtive shuffle of the practised mendicant.
His hair was close-cropped, and on his cheeks was a three days' growth of beard.
He held out a grimy hand.
"Señor," he murmured. "Por Dios——"
"Get out."
The man looked at him appealingly.
"Diez centimes, señor," he whined.
Baggin raised his hand, but checked its descent. He had seen something behind the ragged jacket closely buttoned at the throat.
"Wait for me on the road to Jerez," he commanded, and tossed the man a silver piece. The beggar caught it with the skill of an expert.
Baggin cut short the torrent of thanks, blessings, and protestations.
"Meet me in half-an-hour; you understand?"
"What the devil are you going to do?" demanded Grayson.
"You shall see."
Half-an-hour later they emerged from the café, Baggin to his horse, and the fat man to a capacious victoria that he had summoned from the hotel stables.
A mile along the road they came up with the beggar.
"Get down, Grayson, and send the victoria on; you can signal it when you want it."
He waited until the empty victoria had driven away; then he turned to the waiting ragamuffin.
"What is your name?"
"Carlos Cabindez," said the man hesitatingly.
"Where do you live?"
"At Ronda."
"Where have you come from?"
"Tarifa."
"What is your trade?"
The man grinned and shuffled his feet.
"A fisherman," he said at last.
Baggin's hand suddenly shot out; and, grasping his collar, tore open the frayed jacket.
The man wrenched himself free with an imprecation.
"Take your hand from that knife," commanded Baggin. "I will do you no harm. Where did you get that shirt?"
The beggar scowled and drew the threadbare coat across his chest.
"I bought it," he said.
"That's a lie," said Baggin. "It is a prisoner's shirt; you are an escaped convict."
The man made no answer.
"From Ceuta?"
Again no reply.
"What was your sentence? Answer."
"Life," said the other sullenly.
"Your crime?"
"Asesinatos."
"How many?"
Baggin's eyes narrowed.
"Three murders, eh?" he said. Then, "You would like to earn a thousand pesetas?" he asked.
The man's eyes lit up.
Baggin turned to the troubled Grayson.
"You, can go on, Grayson," he said. "I shall see you to-night. In the meantime, I wish to have a little talk with our friend here."