CHAPTER XXVIIITHE FRUITS OF A CRIMINAL PHILOSOPHY
Lynton Hora was not to be allowed to escape. That was the decision arrived at, after the prolonged conference at the Foreign Office, and Detective Inspector Kenly's mind was thereby disburdened of the fear lest all his efforts should have been wasted. He would have liked to have made certain of one prisoner there and then, but this was forbidden him. He had no belief in repentant offenders, and to him Guy appeared nothing more. Still Flurscheim refused to charge Guy. Captain Marven undertook to be responsible for his answering any charge, Sir Everard Markham added his persuasions, and Sir Gadsby Dimbleby declared that he would take it as a personal insult if Guy were arrested before the Master Criminal was laid by the heels. The Great Man was far too great a man for a detective inspector to offend, and so Guy left the Foreign Office with Captain Marven to await the summons to surrender himself, when information of Hora's arrest should reach him.
The Captain was very grateful for the respite, none the less because he had not personally urged it. For a little while his son would be with him. As yet the prison stain was not upon him. He was pathetically anxious to become acquainted with the grown child who was so soon to be torn away again. Duty maybe sometimes an over-hard task-master, yet he faced it manfully, and could at least find some small consolation in the fact that his son faced it as manfully as himself.
Detective Inspector Kenly saw them drive away together, and, as he caught sight of the look of pleasure on the face of the King's Messenger, he was not altogether sorry that he had been compelled to forego the arrest.
"It's a curious tangle," he muttered. Then he hailed a cab, and gave the address of a police court. Ten minutes' interview with the magistrate was all he sought, and, when he re-entered the waiting cab, he had in his possession two documents—a warrant for Lynton Hora's arrest, and a search warrant for the flat in Westminster Mansions.
Thus provided for all emergencies, he drove straight away for Hora's residence. There was no time to be wasted. From what he had learned during the afternoon it was clear that Lynton Hora must be aware that at any moment his deeds might be brought to light, for Guy had been called in to the conference, and he had revealed all that had passed between himself and the man he had believed to be his father.
On arrival at Westminster Mansions Inspector Kenly stamped his foot with vexation on learning that Lynton Hora had gone out. His subordinate was absent, too. If flight was in Hora's mind, the sergeant would obey the instructions and detain him. Kenly determined to make use of the absence to execute the search warrant in his possession. But he was not going to leave anything to chance. He telephoned to Scotland Yard for further assistance, and, pending its arrival, he chattedwith his old friend, the hall porter, and from him he learned that the other occupant of the flat had also gone out that morning, and had not returned. This seemed more like preparation for flight than ever, but Myra's absence also left him a clear field for his investigations. A very few minutes elapsed before the assistance he had asked for arrived. He left one of the two plain-clothes men in the hall and took the other with him upstairs. No one was aware of the nature of their business, and the two men entered the flat with the service key. Kenly did not waste time on a careful examination of the lower rooms. He went directly to the floor leading to the attics where Hora's "collection" was stored. He only wanted to verify the information which Guy had given as to the whereabouts of the Greuze. He had long since provided himself with a key to the lock of the door so that admission to the attics presented no difficulty. Guy had spoken truly. Kenly found the Greuze and the snuff-boxes stolen from Flurscheim's house. He saw also that there was a rich store of other articles in locked cabinets and cases, for which no doubt he would be able to find owners. But he did not linger to examine them. There would be plenty of time for that after Hora had been apprehended.
After he had been apprehended! Kenly did not allow himself to consider the possibility that he might escape. Yet as minutes passed by and the minutes added themselves into hours, he began to be uneasy in his mind. His uneasiness became acute apprehension when, as dusk was falling, the subordinate to whom had been entrusted the duty of shadowing Hora returned to the Mansions alone.
A rich variety of objurgations rose to the Inspector's tongue, but there was no time to be lost in uttering them. He enquired where Hora had been lost sight of. The man explained to the best of his ability. He had followed Hora to Waterloo railway station, had heard him take a return ticket to Worcester Park, had himself booked to the same destination, had taken a seat in the next compartment, had watched to see whether he alighted at any intermediate station, and on arrival at Worcester Park had discovered that the compartment in which Hora had travelled was empty.
Kenly reflected. Worcester Park was two stations further down the line than Wimbledon. What if Hora had wished to see Jessel again? He turned to the man. "Was Hora carrying a small black bag and an overcoat on his arm?"
"Yes," was the reply.
"You idiot," muttered Kenly; then he added, "You will wait here until Hora returns, or you are relieved. If he comes back, you will arrest him and take him straight to Bow Street. If the girl returns, arrest her, too." Then he turned to the other two men. "Go back to the Yard, and have a full description of him and the girl telegraphed to every port in the kingdom. Stay, though, you had better wire, also, particulars of the disguise in which he succeeded in eluding this dolt."
The subordinate shivered, and realised that if Hora did not return it would be advisable for him to retire from the force.
Kenly dictated a description of Hora's clerical disguise. There was yet a chance that he might get upon his track. He jumped into the first cab that passed anddrove away to Waterloo. He could have wept with vexation at the thought of his prey escaping so easily, through the incompetence of his subordinate. He looked at his watch. A train was timed to start for Wimbledon in two minutes. With luck he would just catch it. He lifted the trap in the roof of the hansom, and shouted, "Hurry up, cabby, I have a train to catch."
Luck was apparently against him. Traffic was heavy and the cab was caught in a block. Kenly writhed with impatience. But a moment later the traffic block appeared to be a special dispensation of Providence. Kenly caught sight, in the light of a street lamp, of an old clergyman, in shabby hat and cloak and carrying a small black bag, amongst the crowd on the sidewalk. He could have shouted aloud with delight. He jumped out of the cab, and tossed the driver a half-crown piece. His first impulse was to dash forward, and there and then effect the arrest. He had recognised Hora, he could have sworn to the distinguishing limp. But a second thought restrained him. Though Guy's statements had been apparently full and frank, Kenly had not credited him when he had declared that he and Lynton Hora worked alone. He had thought that there must be other members of the gang, a supposition which had been fed by the information he had extracted from Jessel. Hora had worn his clerical disguise when communicating with Jessel. What more likely than that he should put it on when communicating with other tools? Kenly determined to follow him.
Soon he was glad that he had done so. Hora apparently had no intention of returning to Westminster Mansions. He boarded an omnibus which took him northwards.Kenly sat behind him while they drove through the brilliant streets of the West End. He changed the bus for another travelling westwards, the detective at his heels. Passengers came and went, but Hora remained until the end of the journey.
Kenly knew the district, and he thought that his suppositions were about to be verified when he observed the direction Hora took upon alighting. That way led to the quarter where the thieves of the metropolis had gathered and made themselves a colony when their old haunts in the centre of the city had been mowed down. He felt in his pocket for his whistle, and wished that he had slipped a revolver into his pocket that morning. But he followed, nevertheless, and was thankful when a couple of uniformed policemen came in sight. As he passed them he uttered a single word. The constables apparently took no notice, but when Kenly was half the length of the street distant they wheeled round and followed him steadily.
Hora pursued his way in a manner that showed that the quarter was not strange to him. The detective hunched his shoulders, pulled his cap down over his ears, and turned up his coat collar. Here he might be recognised any moment. He did not want to alarm his quarry.
Hora turned into Fancy Lane. He was walking more quickly now. He disappeared under the archway which led to "Ma" Norton's disreputable shed. Arriving there Kenly paused. The two policemen turned into the lane. He held up his hand and plunged into the blackness. The constables came on, and arriving at the entrance they stood there chatting quietly. Buttheir eyes were keenly observant, and each had loosened the truncheon hidden beneath his tunic. They were in the enemy's country, and at any moment might be called upon to fight for their lives.
Kenly blundered on through the darkness, guided by the sound of voices, until he emerged into the yard. There his attention was attracted by a dull light filtering through dirty panes of glass. It seemed to him evidence that his objective was attained. Stealthily he made his way to the window and peeped through.
He had seen many strange tableaux during his career, but none stranger than that he now looked upon. He saw a dropsical old woman, with a glass in her hand and a maudlin grin on her bloated face, balancing herself with difficulty on a rickety chair. He saw Lynton Hora, with a mocking smile on his face, by no means in keeping with his clerical garb, pointing to the hideous figure. He saw another man at Hora's elbow, a bullet-headed man, with closely cropped red hair and with flushed face, whose eyes never wandered from the face of the fourth member of the party. Kenly recognised her, too. Myra's beauty was not easily forgotten, and it peeped out from beneath the mask of horror which was drawn over her face.
Hora was speaking.
"So you have found your way back to your native slum, Myra. Do you find it congenial to your dainty spirit? I see your mother is celebrating your return. One day you will be like her." He wheeled round rapidly and glanced at the man at his elbow. "You have found an admirer, too, as well as a mother. You have lost no time."
Myra threw out her hands imploringly.
"Take me away, Commandatore. Take me away," she cried. She saw that Hora hesitated, and she renewed her appeal.
"Why should I take you away?" he answered. "I offered you a husband and a home. You let them escape you." He jerked his head to the man. "Hagan here will supply you with both. Why should I interfere?"
The hope died out of her face and the fear reappeared as the man lurched forward.
"'Ear what the Master says; e's a toff at spoutin', is the Master," he said, with an ugly leer on his face.
She shrank from his touch, and looked vainly round for a way of escape. Kenly thought of a hare he had once seen as it doubled almost at his feet from two pursuing greyhounds. He placed his whistle between his lips ready.
"Stand back, Hagan," said Hora authoritatively.
The man dropped his hand, but there was a frown on his face.
"Suppose I were to take you away?" he asked.
Hope shone out in her face again.
"Ask of me anything you will," she cried. "Anything but this."
She had forgotten everything in the supreme horror of the hideous hole in which she had found herself.
That morning when she had left Lynton Hora's abode she had thought she had been incapable of further suffering. She had gone out into the park and sat there hour after hour, conscious at first only of the one fact that Guy was lost to her forever. She had told herselfthat she would never return to Lynton Hora's roof to face his sneers. He had always hated her. She had no doubt that he was aware all the time that Guy would never marry her, and that he had only bidden her try to win his love that she might be humiliated by its rejection. Perhaps he had lied to her about her mother and her home, merely that she might not be tempted to escape from him. The sound of the word mother appealed strongly to her in her dazed condition. Her mother could not be worse than Hora. She had the address. One day she had copied it down carefully. The slip of paper was still in her purse.
She had found her way thither with difficulty. Not until she had lost herself amongst the streets in the neighbourhood of Fancy Lane did she begin to regain her senses. Then the words of coarse abuse from the doors of public houses, the shrill voices of women from open doors, made her wish for flight. Darkness had fallen on the face of the town by that time, and she became aware that she was nearly exhausted. Then a child had led her to Fancy Lane, and another youngster, for the gift of a sixpence, had acted as guide to her destination. Everybody in Fancy Lane knew "Ma" Norton.
The bully on his way to his favourite drinking shop had seen her passing along the street. A flash of the stones set in the bracelet she still wore on her wrist—the bracelet Guy had given her—attracted his attention. He had changed his purpose and followed her.
Myra had known that Hora had spoken only too truly the moment she entered the den, where Mrs. Norton was soaking herself to death in alcohol. The old womanhad been just too tipsy to comprehend who her visitor was. Myra had soon given up the task of trying to explain. She had found a lamp, and, after lighting it, had shuddered with disgust at the filthy surroundings revealed by the light. She could not stop there. She had risen to leave, but found the exit blocked by the burly figure of Bully Hagan.
He had heard her attempts to make Mrs. Norton understand who she was. This was "Ma's" lady daughter. He foresaw profit in the fact. When his eyes rested on Myra's perfect figure silhouetted against the lamp she had lighted, another thought entered into his brain. He did not at first disclose his thought. Myra thought he was merely intent upon plunder. When she understood, she realised how the Sabine women must have felt; she experienced the emotions of the women of a Balkan village when an Albanian regiment was let loose upon it.
For an hour Myra had kept him at bay, her faculties racked to the utmost. Then Lynton Hora had come on the scene, and she had appealed to him.
Now Hora seemed to be considering her appeal, and her face brightened with hope as she gazed eagerly on his face. He responded with a smile.
"It is lucky for you that I thought of coming and looking for you here," he said. "Whatever you have done or left undone would not deserve such a fate as that."
He indicated the man at his elbow with a gesture of scorn.
"You will take me home again." The relief was so great that she could scarcely believe it.
"Yes, come along. It is getting late."
An angry growl arrested him.
"No, you don't," said Hagan.
The veins of the bully's forehead were swollen and his fists clenched.
"Get out of the way," said Hora, in the tone he would have used to a cur in the street, and, as the man did not stir, he caught him by the arm and thrust him aside so violently that he crashed against the opposite wall.
"Come, Myra," said Hora.
Kenly lost nothing of the scene. He saw the look on the bully's face as he picked himself up. He saw a flash of steel in his hand. The whistle he held between his teeth shrilled out as he left the window and dashed to the door. The sound was answered by other whistles, and he heard the rush of feet towards him down the passage. He reached the door, but it stuck fast. The sound of the advancing feet was drowned by a woman's shriek. Kenly hurled his whole weight against the door. The shriek was repeated. A second time the detective hurled himself against the door. This time the catch gave way and he blundered forward into the room.
Two figures lay prone upon the floor, a man stood over them calmly wiping the blood-stained blade of a knife on his sleeve. A dropsical old woman sat gazing with a maudlin smile on her face at the scene.
Kenly's head whirled. He stood still, mechanically, until panting breath behind him gave warning that assistance had arrived.
Hagan coolly handed him the knife.
"I done it," he said; "I've outed 'em both."
Then he held out his hands for the bracelets.
Kenly stooped to the floor, and laid his finger on Myra's wrist. The pulse had ceased to beat. He laid her hand down again, and bent over Lynton Hora. The Master lay perfectly still, and even while the detective bent over him a glaze spread itself over the open eyes. Kenly's quarry had escaped him.