CHAPTER VIEDGED TOOLSThe grip of a London dawn was in the air as Fay rounded the hedge, within the foliage of the house next door to Saidee Isaacs’. He found his tweed overcoat, into the pockets of which he crammed his gloves.He went out then into the silent lane and struck toward the east with long swinging strides which carried him past constables, early morning workers and the heavy lorries which were streaming Londonward.His eyes were sanguine and held high. His elbows bent at his sides. The absence of sleep from the moment he had been awakened by the turnkey at Dartmoor was unnoticed. He was free! The world was wide! And there was a woman in it for him!He thought of Saidee Isaacs as he hurried along. She had come up out of the underworld. She had prospered and gained in strength and beauty. More than these two things, she represented the entire sex to him. He knew that the five years of prison life had glorified women and lowered men in his estimation.The mystery of her position, her close touch with the Yard, her willingness to send him on the mission to Holland, which was bound to prove dangerous, caused him concern as he reached Hyde Park Corner and passed the iron-grilled fence of Apsley House.The City roared a warning. The rattle of busses and cabs over the pavements clashed with his thoughts. It was all new and terrifying to one who had never known fear. He felt, instinctively, that he was being followed. He fled eastward without glancing behind him. He reached the entrance to Berkeley Street and turned northward.The two emotions struggled with his soul. Five years of silence and solitude had left their mark. The constant eyes of the guards in the prison still were there. He felt them in the center of his brain. They haunted, despite his attempt to dismiss their presence. His early buoyancy died.He was passing through the experience that every released prisoner knows. He was fagged from lack of sleep. The excitement of the game to come had worn off. There remained only weariness and dejection.A park, hedged about with plane trees and towered over by neat boxed-houses, brought him to the realization of his locality. North, lay Brooke Street and Oxford. A mews was at his right, between two mansions. He took this narrow passage, passed hostlers grooming horses, and emerged upon a street which would lead him to Soho Square and Burlington Arcade.He came, with the same swift glide, to a coffee house under the sign of a brown cup. There he wheeled and flashed a defiant glance back and over the street. He searched each face that passed him. He swept the throng. No one of all of them was familiar. He wasnot being followed. The thought had been the distillate of a tired brain.Braced on two cups of black coffee, and quieted by the dragging fumes of a cigarette, he went on into the city and was swallowed up by the three who toiled and cheated and gamed out the day.The alchemy of sleep—in a Soho hotel noted for its cleanliness—removed the last vestige of weariness from his mind. He glanced at his watch as he called for cold water and plenty of it. He bathed and dressed hurriedly, then took stock of his possessions.There were the cuff-links and the pin and the cigarette-case which MacKeenon had brought to Dartmoor. There were the tweed coat, the little silver greyhound, and the bank notes and gold. More than these was Saidee’s diagram of the embassy. He studied this before opening his door.The plan flashed over his brain. He memorized the details like a draughtsman reading a white-print. He closed his eyes and repeated each item. Then, and naturally, he struck a match on his heel, held out the blazing paper and dropped its ashes along the narrow hallway where they would never be noticed.Keen-brained from the sleep, and with eight hours ahead of him, he plunged into the opening meshes of the game. There was much to do in that short time. A plan had already mapped itself out. It would not do to go to Holland without every necessary tool for the operation of opening the strong-box. These, he knew, were to be found at a certain shop on Ludgate Street.He strolled north and east through familiar lanes. He stopped now and then, and glanced at the windows. His actions, though natural, had one purpose. The Yard had let him go free. And yet, he knew, there were serious-faced young men about who were waiting for him. It was not in the cards that Sir Richard and MacKeenon would remain passive. Every inspector from that dingy house near the Embankment had received orders to watch out for any overt act on the part of Chester Fay, just out and dangerous.The many faces of the crowd flowed before him like a stream. He registered each one, but found none upon which he could fasten his suspicion. The Yard and Sir Richard would be more than keen to know how the great safe in Hatton Gardens had been opened. They had declared at the time that it was by far the best piece of cracksman’s work ever done in the city.Fay had the pride of his profession. Secrecy was the one thing which had been ground into him. He moved off from the windows and plunged into the throng of drab clerks and shoppers. He twisted and turned and retraced his steps. He dropped into the Tube and came out again. Satisfied, then, that there was no shadow behind him, he turned into Ludgate Street and sought for the shop.It had been over five years since his last visit. The sales people surely had forgotten him. He glanced up at the familiar sign and entered. He made his way along aisles of polished cases and came to a protection ledge behind which was an array of medical instruments laid out for inspection.The salesman who stepped out of the gloom with an encouraging smile was the same who had been there five years and more before. Fay realized this fact with quick intuition. He watched the man’s face for some sign of recognition. There was none.“My eldest brother,â€� he said with a winning smile, “has sent me to you. He’s stationed in Mesopotamia. Rather far from here! He cawn’t come himself, y’know. I’m a bit doubtful if you remember the Sir Roderick Findlayson who went with the expedition. He practiced up St. John’s Woods way.â€�The salesman rested the tips of his fingers on the polished case and puzzled his memory.“Awkward of me, but I just can’t now. Is there anything I can do to help you out?â€� he asked.Fay was on rather thin ice, and he knew it. The instruments he wished had queer names among the medical profession. It was possible the salesman was not a surgeon.“Yes!â€� he blurted. “You can help me out. My brother—Sir Roderick Findlayson—wrote for me to send him certain things. Unfortunately I lost the letter. But I remember about what he wanted.â€�The salesman glanced at the case beneath the array of instruments. “We have the largest supply in London,â€� he said. “Could you pick what you want from this assortment?â€�“Well, there was a satch—, a doctor’s bag, for one thing. Something nice in black alligator. Say a three-pound bag. Would it be about this long?â€�Fay spread his hands to show two feet in length.“We have that size in genuine alligator for three and ten.â€�“Nicely!â€� said Fay. “I take one. Now,â€� he added, “I may as well pick out the instruments for my brother. You can get the bag later and put them in it.â€�The salesman opened the case and started lifting up trays filled with highly polished instruments. Fay set aside a tempered artery-forceps which would also answer to turn a key in a lock. It was known in the underworld as an “insider.â€�“My brother,â€� he said lightly, “will be pleased with this. Now what is that big instrument?â€�“That is used in obstetrics.â€�“Just what he wanted. Put that with the forceps.â€� Fay shaded his face and smiled. The obstetric instrument when taken apart would make a high-grade jimmy.He leaned down and indicated a tray. “Three of those,â€� he said, pointing to bone saws which could be employed equally as well against wood or iron.The salesman polished these with a piece of cheesecloth and laid them on top of the obstetric instrument.“I think that’s all at this counter,â€� said Fay, eyeing the collection. “The next will be rubber gloves and collodium. You see my brother has many infectious cases.â€�The salesman opened the back of a near-by case and brought out samples of gloves. Fay inspected them as the clerk went for the collodium, which was a sovereign cure for finger-prints.Fay’s next purchase seemed an afterthought. Without it he would have been an amateur. It was a very high-grade stethoscope, such as army doctors and surgeons use to determine the right ventricle’s action or the little flaws and flutters of the human heart. It had been made by one of the greatest houses in London. The clerk insisted that it was powerful enough to hear a fly walk ten feet away.Fay arched his brows at this statement.“How about the chest?â€� he asked.“Perfect, sir. All one has to do is to press it to the left breast and place on the ear-pieces. The instrument registers every valve motion and defect.â€�“Your price?â€�“Eight pound, ten—the same price we charged the British Royal Flying Corps. They were used extensively in the examination of the flying men.â€�Fay had another purpose for the stethoscope. It worked equally as well upon the door of a strong-box just over the combination dial. This is the nearest spot to the padded slots into which certain tumblers drop with a tap which would sound like a bolt falling by use of a sensitive micro-phone diaphragm.“I’ll take it!â€� he snapped. “That completes my purchases. Now, let me see the bag.â€�The bag proved all that the salesman claimed for it. Fay fondled each instrument, laid them in position, and turned the key in a little nickle-plated lock.He paid his score and was out in the street, pressing his way like a doctor on a hurried call. He caught his reflection in a window. It was of a British surgeon, incap and long tweed coat, carrying the little insignia of the office. He expected momentarily to be grasped by the arm and led to a street accident.The matter of the instruments had been carefully thought out. There remained a second purchase equally as important. Fay was doubtful of the propriety of purchasing a heavy-caliber revolver in the open shops.He turned into Cheapside and sauntered along. An ancient armorer’s sign caught his darting glance. He crossed the pavement and stared into the window. A half-circle of British regulation revolvers lay in the center of other hardware. Also, there was a blue-steel American automatic with a business-like muzzle.Fay smiled at this as if greeting an old friend. Mike the Bike and Big Scar, of western memory, always carried a .44 automatic. They called them “maggy-gunsâ€� or “smoke wagons.â€�He went inside the shop and explained to the proprietor that he was en route to Mesopotamia. “I’ll take that American revolver,â€� he said. “That, and one hundred cartridges. Never can tell what the Turks are apt to do.â€�Emerging from the armorer’s, with the automatic clinking against the tools in the bag, he glanced at the time. It was three o’clock. Fog was drifting across the dome of St. Paul’s. He had five hours before meeting MacKeenon!Swirled now with the first grip of the game, he decided to visit one or two of his old haunts. No one would be likely to know him in the guise of a British surgeon.He chose to first drop in at the Monica, and from there make his way to “Jimmy’sâ€� or the St. James Hotel, which at one time was a meeting place for international celebrities and flash denizens of the underworld.The long bar at the Monica was strangely free from patrons. Fay ordered Rhine wine and seltzer, which was equivalent to a soft drink.The bar-maid turned away as he spun a shilling over the bar. Fay, on the alert, and with the doctor’s bag between his feet, caught a glance exchanged between the girl and a lone figure at the end of the bar.He sipped the drink and searched his brain for an answer to the signal which he had detected. It came to him with sudden flash. The man was from the Yard. The girl had recognized an old acquaintance in the plaid-capped visitor.Fay acted with the quick wit of the professional. He glided along the bar and held out his hand. The smile he bestowed upon the inspector broke down a staid Scotch reserve.“Well, have you found him yet?â€� he asked cautiously.The man from Scotland Yard winced.“I mean Dutch Gus,â€� whispered Fay.“No!â€� The answer was solemn and from the heart.“And it’s been five years?â€�“Six and a piece.â€�“You’re waiting for him to come in here?â€�“Here or the other places. Can you help me out, Edward?â€�Fay went back and lifted his bag. He passed close to the inspector, on his way to the doorway.“I never peach,â€� he said through tight lips. “But, if I ever change my mind, that’s the man I’ll squeal on first. Good-by, MacPhee.â€�Fay burst through to the street and the drifting fog. He had acted on the spur of the moment in speaking to the inspector. The long watch at the Monica bar was a sample of the work of Scotland Yard. It had once been a favorite rendezvous of Dutch Gus and his mob. The watch was still being kept for the German crook who had learned safe-breaking in the States during the palmy days of the Chicago Drainage Canal. He had transgressed once too often, in the estimation of Sir Richard Colstrom.“And they’ll lag him,â€� said Fay, turning toward the south. “MacPhee never lost a man.â€�He became thoughtful as he reached Blackfriars Bridge and crossed the Thames to the Surrey side. He still had three hours before meeting MacKeenon at London Bridge Station. He had forgotten his intended visit to “Jimmy’s.â€� The presence of the inspector on watch at the Monica bar was food for thought. There seemed no way of escaping the nipper grip of the Yard.MacKeenon, Sir Richard, MacPhee, Saidee Isaacs, the cipher and the evil visage of Dutch Gus appeared in the fog as Fay leaned over the Albert Embankment and stared toward the curtain which blotted out London. Fingers seemed to reach and clutch for him. Coils were thrown. There was the south, and Brightonand the Cape boats, for a get-away. The bag with its gun and surgical instruments could be tossed in the Thames. No man could catch him, if he chose to exercise caution. The world was wide, and a new life in another country could be started without suspicion.He felt in a reflective mood. Belligerency would follow this mood as certain as the dawn would rise on foggy London. He recalled the ancient vows of getting square with the police of the world. The five years of cell life—of waiting and watching—had not shaken him from his purpose to gain a little place in the sun, and there bask with the smiles of those he cared for and understood.The cipher mission had not gripped him in the manner it should. He did not see the great commercial war which was settling upon a torn world. The factories of London, Manchester, Leeds and the Scotch districts might be pouring their smoke into the English air in an attempt to stem the tide of imports from over the North Sea. They were building the last battlements of a people who would be free. He did not care! Had not England penned him for five long years in a living hell? Was that punishment to be forgotten lightly? Was it a reason for falling in with the plans of Sir Richard and the hounds of the Yard?He smiled bitterly. He wanted freedom of action. He had the wherewithal to gain this desire. The money in his pocket, the open road to the south through Surrey, and a change of costume would effect an escape. There was no way to prove that the Yardwould not send him back to Dartmoor if he failed in the Holland mission.He turned away from the stone rail and stared through the gloom to where arc lights were stretched in an unending row. They shone blurred and torch-like in the murky air. Beneath them, pedestrians and lorries moved, like a procession of sad mourners. It was the tide of London folk pouring home at the day’s end.Tapping his heel against the black bag at his feet, he saw from the corner of his right eye the arched bridges which spanned the Thames. They, also, were thronged with a dark mass of outpouring humanity.He seemed alone. He was in the backwater of strife and bustle. An open space was between his position at the rail and the nearest sidewalk. This space was shimmered over with damp mist. Across it, flashing eastward, there passed a smart, black motor car, with a driver bent at the wheel and a single figure in the tonneau.Fay heard, as distinctly as if the voice had been at his side, a call and a warning. It rang in his ears after the car had vanished in the shadowy street on his left hand. He repeated the words: “Look out, Chester!â€�“Now, who in the devil was that?â€� he asked himself, standing erect and glancing after the car like a thoroughbred who had scented danger.The mystery of anyone in London knowing his name or figure, gripped with strength. He wondered if the voice that struck across the night had been a guilty tug at his own brain. It could hardly have beenreal. He recalled that the car was smaller and of less horse-power than the one which had brought him up from Dartmoor. It was not the same motor. Nor had there been “H.M.S.â€� plates on its trunk rack.The roar of the city confused him as he waited. It was possible that he had but reflected his own thoughts when he heard the warning. He dismissed the matter and started to turn toward the river. His chin had described half a circle when there flashed across his vision the true warning of coming danger. It had taken him many years of training to act as he did. He ducked, stepped aside and sprang out and away from the stone rail.A hurtling form, bunched and aggressive, crashed past him and rebounded from the stone. A bitter oath cracked the night. A man straightened and jabbed with a long dagger. Fay backed and held his hand in a warding position. It was Dutch Gus who faced him. The German crook had missed his prey by the scant margin of an eye flash.Fay acted with the lightning dart of a professional wrestler. He knew the mettle of the man he faced. Dutch Gus was over-burly. He lacked the fine points of the thoroughbred. He held the knife like a bayonet—before him, with no chance to recover if he missed the stroke.The jab missed by narrow inches. The crook stumbled from the force of his wasted blow. Fay twisted his head, stooped down, grasped the German about the hips, and flipped him over his shoulder. Dutch Gus crashed against the stone rail and hung there.Fay reached and swiftly opened his little black bag. From this he drew the revolver and held it against the German crook’s head. He cocked the trigger. He waited. He thrust the man further outward. A coward’s cry sounded as Fay pressed Dutch Gus over the rail and down toward the murky flood of the Thames.A splash was followed by silence. The ripples widened and merged with the pall that hung over the river. Out of this murk there rose an arm, and then the blond head of Dutch Gus. He treaded water and then sank.“Curse you!â€� said Fay, clasping the weapon and waiting for a sight. “Curse you, Dutch Gus! I wonder if that’s your end?â€�Fay turned, backed against the rail, and searched the gloom on the Surrey side. He waited grimly for other evidences of the ambush. He saw none, although it was hardly possible that the German had acted alone.It came to him, as he uncocked the automatic, that in some unknown manner the German had gotten wind of the project to Holland. It flashed through his brain that, after all, there was a reasonable answer to the attempt on his life. Dutch Gus had followed Saidee Isaacs. It was no coincidence then, that she had called from the tonneau of the black car and her trailers had discovered his presence. The thing worked out. He pocketed the automatic, picked up his bag, glanced at the river, then started toward London Bridge Station. It was seven o’clock.As he moved swiftly, his eyes searched the throng across the pavement. He wondered if a shadow would be there. He was dealing with not only the Yard, which was too solicitous for his welfare, but also with a determined clique that had already attempted to obtain the key to the cipher. Dutch Gus had searched for Saidee Isaacs and had found her house in Richmond Hill. The German crook, or one of his gang, had held the trail—even to London Bridge Station. Fay felt gripped in the skeins of an enterprise which might have almost any conclusion.He was not surprised to see the tail-light and then the polished tonneau of the little, black motor where it stood before the station. He crossed the street and stared at the driver. He went on and into the train shed.A youthful-appearing figure in a long tan coat and green hat passed him, stooped, fingered the top button of a fawn-colored spat and said tersely:“Carry high, Chester. There’s your man over by the booking office. Look out for Dutch Gus and remember your promise.â€�Fay set down his black bag, grasped the lapels of his tweed coat and coughed to hide his astonishment.The figure in the tan coat was Saidee Isaacs. She finished with the spat, straightened, twinkled over the floor and darted out toward the motor car.MacKeenon worked through the waiting passengers and touched Fay on the arm.“This way, mon,â€� he said. “Ye are punctual.â€�Fay was still staring at the doorway through whichSaidee Isaacs had vanished. He turned and picked up the bag. He glanced at the inspector’s long face. Upon it was written a sly satisfaction that one sees on old dogs that have cornered their quarry.“The siller greyhound?â€� said MacKeenon dryly as Fay followed him out to the waiting boat train.“It’s in my pocket.â€�“Put it on, mon. It’ll carry ye far.â€�Fay set down the bag, reached in his right trousers pocket and brought forth the insignia of the King’s couriers. He pinned it in place upon his left lapel and covered it with his overcoat.The station-master approached the inspector and indicated that the train was about to pull out.MacKeenon held up two fingers and smiled. The station-master nodded at the secret signal. Fay felt clutched in the swing of events. He watched the Scotch detective anxiously.“Weil, mon,â€� said MacKeenon, “ye’re off. Here’s your ticket for the boat to—where ye’re going. Here’s twa envelopes. Guard them well. There’s money in one—there’s Sir Richard’s instructions in th’ other.â€�Fay reached, took the envelopes and the ticket, and crammed them in his inner coat pocket.“How about getting through at Dover?â€� he asked.“Shew th’ siller greyhound, lad. They will ask ye no questions at all. Many’s the time A’ve done it.â€�Fay glanced at the train. The semaphore ahead was set for “go.â€� The steam plumed from the engine and merged with the fog at the end of the shed.A bell rang as he thrust a cold finger out to MacKeenon, clutched the little black bag and sprang for the running-board of a first-class compartment. The train started, stopped, then lunged on through the clammy shed. Fay opened a door, tossed in his bag and stumbled aboard. He overlooked one trifle.MacKeenon had drawn a white handkerchief from his coat pocket—where it was most conveniently handy—and had shown all the evidences of a man doubled up with Spanish influenza.A little Scot—with a bundle and a hacking cough—passed the inspector and clutched wildly for a handrail on the car behind the first-class one. He hung there by grim strength, and finally succeeded in getting inside a compartment as the train roared out of the station shed and started to tunnel the murky night.The inspector’s smile was that of a sly gray fox as he turned and hurried from the station. He crossed the bridge on a swift run, barked a surly order to the waiting driver of a two-wheeler, and settled back as the whip cracked smartly over the haunches of a perfectly good horse of the better order.The driver knew his book. He drove northward and deposited MacKeenon at Liverpool Street Station, where a train was waiting by which a number of British North Sea ports could be reached.Although he had overlooked it, Fay had company going to a certain neutral country, and company coming by a roundabout route.
The grip of a London dawn was in the air as Fay rounded the hedge, within the foliage of the house next door to Saidee Isaacs’. He found his tweed overcoat, into the pockets of which he crammed his gloves.
He went out then into the silent lane and struck toward the east with long swinging strides which carried him past constables, early morning workers and the heavy lorries which were streaming Londonward.
His eyes were sanguine and held high. His elbows bent at his sides. The absence of sleep from the moment he had been awakened by the turnkey at Dartmoor was unnoticed. He was free! The world was wide! And there was a woman in it for him!
He thought of Saidee Isaacs as he hurried along. She had come up out of the underworld. She had prospered and gained in strength and beauty. More than these two things, she represented the entire sex to him. He knew that the five years of prison life had glorified women and lowered men in his estimation.
The mystery of her position, her close touch with the Yard, her willingness to send him on the mission to Holland, which was bound to prove dangerous, caused him concern as he reached Hyde Park Corner and passed the iron-grilled fence of Apsley House.
The City roared a warning. The rattle of busses and cabs over the pavements clashed with his thoughts. It was all new and terrifying to one who had never known fear. He felt, instinctively, that he was being followed. He fled eastward without glancing behind him. He reached the entrance to Berkeley Street and turned northward.
The two emotions struggled with his soul. Five years of silence and solitude had left their mark. The constant eyes of the guards in the prison still were there. He felt them in the center of his brain. They haunted, despite his attempt to dismiss their presence. His early buoyancy died.
He was passing through the experience that every released prisoner knows. He was fagged from lack of sleep. The excitement of the game to come had worn off. There remained only weariness and dejection.
A park, hedged about with plane trees and towered over by neat boxed-houses, brought him to the realization of his locality. North, lay Brooke Street and Oxford. A mews was at his right, between two mansions. He took this narrow passage, passed hostlers grooming horses, and emerged upon a street which would lead him to Soho Square and Burlington Arcade.
He came, with the same swift glide, to a coffee house under the sign of a brown cup. There he wheeled and flashed a defiant glance back and over the street. He searched each face that passed him. He swept the throng. No one of all of them was familiar. He wasnot being followed. The thought had been the distillate of a tired brain.
Braced on two cups of black coffee, and quieted by the dragging fumes of a cigarette, he went on into the city and was swallowed up by the three who toiled and cheated and gamed out the day.
The alchemy of sleep—in a Soho hotel noted for its cleanliness—removed the last vestige of weariness from his mind. He glanced at his watch as he called for cold water and plenty of it. He bathed and dressed hurriedly, then took stock of his possessions.
There were the cuff-links and the pin and the cigarette-case which MacKeenon had brought to Dartmoor. There were the tweed coat, the little silver greyhound, and the bank notes and gold. More than these was Saidee’s diagram of the embassy. He studied this before opening his door.
The plan flashed over his brain. He memorized the details like a draughtsman reading a white-print. He closed his eyes and repeated each item. Then, and naturally, he struck a match on his heel, held out the blazing paper and dropped its ashes along the narrow hallway where they would never be noticed.
Keen-brained from the sleep, and with eight hours ahead of him, he plunged into the opening meshes of the game. There was much to do in that short time. A plan had already mapped itself out. It would not do to go to Holland without every necessary tool for the operation of opening the strong-box. These, he knew, were to be found at a certain shop on Ludgate Street.
He strolled north and east through familiar lanes. He stopped now and then, and glanced at the windows. His actions, though natural, had one purpose. The Yard had let him go free. And yet, he knew, there were serious-faced young men about who were waiting for him. It was not in the cards that Sir Richard and MacKeenon would remain passive. Every inspector from that dingy house near the Embankment had received orders to watch out for any overt act on the part of Chester Fay, just out and dangerous.
The many faces of the crowd flowed before him like a stream. He registered each one, but found none upon which he could fasten his suspicion. The Yard and Sir Richard would be more than keen to know how the great safe in Hatton Gardens had been opened. They had declared at the time that it was by far the best piece of cracksman’s work ever done in the city.
Fay had the pride of his profession. Secrecy was the one thing which had been ground into him. He moved off from the windows and plunged into the throng of drab clerks and shoppers. He twisted and turned and retraced his steps. He dropped into the Tube and came out again. Satisfied, then, that there was no shadow behind him, he turned into Ludgate Street and sought for the shop.
It had been over five years since his last visit. The sales people surely had forgotten him. He glanced up at the familiar sign and entered. He made his way along aisles of polished cases and came to a protection ledge behind which was an array of medical instruments laid out for inspection.
The salesman who stepped out of the gloom with an encouraging smile was the same who had been there five years and more before. Fay realized this fact with quick intuition. He watched the man’s face for some sign of recognition. There was none.
“My eldest brother,� he said with a winning smile, “has sent me to you. He’s stationed in Mesopotamia. Rather far from here! He cawn’t come himself, y’know. I’m a bit doubtful if you remember the Sir Roderick Findlayson who went with the expedition. He practiced up St. John’s Woods way.�
The salesman rested the tips of his fingers on the polished case and puzzled his memory.
“Awkward of me, but I just can’t now. Is there anything I can do to help you out?� he asked.
Fay was on rather thin ice, and he knew it. The instruments he wished had queer names among the medical profession. It was possible the salesman was not a surgeon.
“Yes!â€� he blurted. “You can help me out. My brother—Sir Roderick Findlayson—wrote for me to send him certain things. Unfortunately I lost the letter. But I remember about what he wanted.â€�
The salesman glanced at the case beneath the array of instruments. “We have the largest supply in London,� he said. “Could you pick what you want from this assortment?�
“Well, there was a satch—, a doctor’s bag, for one thing. Something nice in black alligator. Say a three-pound bag. Would it be about this long?â€�
Fay spread his hands to show two feet in length.
“We have that size in genuine alligator for three and ten.�
“Nicely!� said Fay. “I take one. Now,� he added, “I may as well pick out the instruments for my brother. You can get the bag later and put them in it.�
The salesman opened the case and started lifting up trays filled with highly polished instruments. Fay set aside a tempered artery-forceps which would also answer to turn a key in a lock. It was known in the underworld as an “insider.�
“My brother,� he said lightly, “will be pleased with this. Now what is that big instrument?�
“That is used in obstetrics.�
“Just what he wanted. Put that with the forceps.� Fay shaded his face and smiled. The obstetric instrument when taken apart would make a high-grade jimmy.
He leaned down and indicated a tray. “Three of those,� he said, pointing to bone saws which could be employed equally as well against wood or iron.
The salesman polished these with a piece of cheesecloth and laid them on top of the obstetric instrument.
“I think that’s all at this counter,� said Fay, eyeing the collection. “The next will be rubber gloves and collodium. You see my brother has many infectious cases.�
The salesman opened the back of a near-by case and brought out samples of gloves. Fay inspected them as the clerk went for the collodium, which was a sovereign cure for finger-prints.
Fay’s next purchase seemed an afterthought. Without it he would have been an amateur. It was a very high-grade stethoscope, such as army doctors and surgeons use to determine the right ventricle’s action or the little flaws and flutters of the human heart. It had been made by one of the greatest houses in London. The clerk insisted that it was powerful enough to hear a fly walk ten feet away.
Fay arched his brows at this statement.
“How about the chest?� he asked.
“Perfect, sir. All one has to do is to press it to the left breast and place on the ear-pieces. The instrument registers every valve motion and defect.�
“Your price?�
“Eight pound, ten—the same price we charged the British Royal Flying Corps. They were used extensively in the examination of the flying men.â€�
Fay had another purpose for the stethoscope. It worked equally as well upon the door of a strong-box just over the combination dial. This is the nearest spot to the padded slots into which certain tumblers drop with a tap which would sound like a bolt falling by use of a sensitive micro-phone diaphragm.
“I’ll take it!� he snapped. “That completes my purchases. Now, let me see the bag.�
The bag proved all that the salesman claimed for it. Fay fondled each instrument, laid them in position, and turned the key in a little nickle-plated lock.
He paid his score and was out in the street, pressing his way like a doctor on a hurried call. He caught his reflection in a window. It was of a British surgeon, incap and long tweed coat, carrying the little insignia of the office. He expected momentarily to be grasped by the arm and led to a street accident.
The matter of the instruments had been carefully thought out. There remained a second purchase equally as important. Fay was doubtful of the propriety of purchasing a heavy-caliber revolver in the open shops.
He turned into Cheapside and sauntered along. An ancient armorer’s sign caught his darting glance. He crossed the pavement and stared into the window. A half-circle of British regulation revolvers lay in the center of other hardware. Also, there was a blue-steel American automatic with a business-like muzzle.
Fay smiled at this as if greeting an old friend. Mike the Bike and Big Scar, of western memory, always carried a .44 automatic. They called them “maggy-guns� or “smoke wagons.�
He went inside the shop and explained to the proprietor that he was en route to Mesopotamia. “I’ll take that American revolver,� he said. “That, and one hundred cartridges. Never can tell what the Turks are apt to do.�
Emerging from the armorer’s, with the automatic clinking against the tools in the bag, he glanced at the time. It was three o’clock. Fog was drifting across the dome of St. Paul’s. He had five hours before meeting MacKeenon!
Swirled now with the first grip of the game, he decided to visit one or two of his old haunts. No one would be likely to know him in the guise of a British surgeon.
He chose to first drop in at the Monica, and from there make his way to “Jimmy’s� or the St. James Hotel, which at one time was a meeting place for international celebrities and flash denizens of the underworld.
The long bar at the Monica was strangely free from patrons. Fay ordered Rhine wine and seltzer, which was equivalent to a soft drink.
The bar-maid turned away as he spun a shilling over the bar. Fay, on the alert, and with the doctor’s bag between his feet, caught a glance exchanged between the girl and a lone figure at the end of the bar.
He sipped the drink and searched his brain for an answer to the signal which he had detected. It came to him with sudden flash. The man was from the Yard. The girl had recognized an old acquaintance in the plaid-capped visitor.
Fay acted with the quick wit of the professional. He glided along the bar and held out his hand. The smile he bestowed upon the inspector broke down a staid Scotch reserve.
“Well, have you found him yet?� he asked cautiously.
The man from Scotland Yard winced.
“I mean Dutch Gus,� whispered Fay.
“No!� The answer was solemn and from the heart.
“And it’s been five years?�
“Six and a piece.�
“You’re waiting for him to come in here?�
“Here or the other places. Can you help me out, Edward?�
Fay went back and lifted his bag. He passed close to the inspector, on his way to the doorway.
“I never peach,� he said through tight lips. “But, if I ever change my mind, that’s the man I’ll squeal on first. Good-by, MacPhee.�
Fay burst through to the street and the drifting fog. He had acted on the spur of the moment in speaking to the inspector. The long watch at the Monica bar was a sample of the work of Scotland Yard. It had once been a favorite rendezvous of Dutch Gus and his mob. The watch was still being kept for the German crook who had learned safe-breaking in the States during the palmy days of the Chicago Drainage Canal. He had transgressed once too often, in the estimation of Sir Richard Colstrom.
“And they’ll lag him,� said Fay, turning toward the south. “MacPhee never lost a man.�
He became thoughtful as he reached Blackfriars Bridge and crossed the Thames to the Surrey side. He still had three hours before meeting MacKeenon at London Bridge Station. He had forgotten his intended visit to “Jimmy’s.� The presence of the inspector on watch at the Monica bar was food for thought. There seemed no way of escaping the nipper grip of the Yard.
MacKeenon, Sir Richard, MacPhee, Saidee Isaacs, the cipher and the evil visage of Dutch Gus appeared in the fog as Fay leaned over the Albert Embankment and stared toward the curtain which blotted out London. Fingers seemed to reach and clutch for him. Coils were thrown. There was the south, and Brightonand the Cape boats, for a get-away. The bag with its gun and surgical instruments could be tossed in the Thames. No man could catch him, if he chose to exercise caution. The world was wide, and a new life in another country could be started without suspicion.
He felt in a reflective mood. Belligerency would follow this mood as certain as the dawn would rise on foggy London. He recalled the ancient vows of getting square with the police of the world. The five years of cell life—of waiting and watching—had not shaken him from his purpose to gain a little place in the sun, and there bask with the smiles of those he cared for and understood.
The cipher mission had not gripped him in the manner it should. He did not see the great commercial war which was settling upon a torn world. The factories of London, Manchester, Leeds and the Scotch districts might be pouring their smoke into the English air in an attempt to stem the tide of imports from over the North Sea. They were building the last battlements of a people who would be free. He did not care! Had not England penned him for five long years in a living hell? Was that punishment to be forgotten lightly? Was it a reason for falling in with the plans of Sir Richard and the hounds of the Yard?
He smiled bitterly. He wanted freedom of action. He had the wherewithal to gain this desire. The money in his pocket, the open road to the south through Surrey, and a change of costume would effect an escape. There was no way to prove that the Yardwould not send him back to Dartmoor if he failed in the Holland mission.
He turned away from the stone rail and stared through the gloom to where arc lights were stretched in an unending row. They shone blurred and torch-like in the murky air. Beneath them, pedestrians and lorries moved, like a procession of sad mourners. It was the tide of London folk pouring home at the day’s end.
Tapping his heel against the black bag at his feet, he saw from the corner of his right eye the arched bridges which spanned the Thames. They, also, were thronged with a dark mass of outpouring humanity.
He seemed alone. He was in the backwater of strife and bustle. An open space was between his position at the rail and the nearest sidewalk. This space was shimmered over with damp mist. Across it, flashing eastward, there passed a smart, black motor car, with a driver bent at the wheel and a single figure in the tonneau.
Fay heard, as distinctly as if the voice had been at his side, a call and a warning. It rang in his ears after the car had vanished in the shadowy street on his left hand. He repeated the words: “Look out, Chester!�
“Now, who in the devil was that?� he asked himself, standing erect and glancing after the car like a thoroughbred who had scented danger.
The mystery of anyone in London knowing his name or figure, gripped with strength. He wondered if the voice that struck across the night had been a guilty tug at his own brain. It could hardly have beenreal. He recalled that the car was smaller and of less horse-power than the one which had brought him up from Dartmoor. It was not the same motor. Nor had there been “H.M.S.� plates on its trunk rack.
The roar of the city confused him as he waited. It was possible that he had but reflected his own thoughts when he heard the warning. He dismissed the matter and started to turn toward the river. His chin had described half a circle when there flashed across his vision the true warning of coming danger. It had taken him many years of training to act as he did. He ducked, stepped aside and sprang out and away from the stone rail.
A hurtling form, bunched and aggressive, crashed past him and rebounded from the stone. A bitter oath cracked the night. A man straightened and jabbed with a long dagger. Fay backed and held his hand in a warding position. It was Dutch Gus who faced him. The German crook had missed his prey by the scant margin of an eye flash.
Fay acted with the lightning dart of a professional wrestler. He knew the mettle of the man he faced. Dutch Gus was over-burly. He lacked the fine points of the thoroughbred. He held the knife like a bayonet—before him, with no chance to recover if he missed the stroke.
The jab missed by narrow inches. The crook stumbled from the force of his wasted blow. Fay twisted his head, stooped down, grasped the German about the hips, and flipped him over his shoulder. Dutch Gus crashed against the stone rail and hung there.
Fay reached and swiftly opened his little black bag. From this he drew the revolver and held it against the German crook’s head. He cocked the trigger. He waited. He thrust the man further outward. A coward’s cry sounded as Fay pressed Dutch Gus over the rail and down toward the murky flood of the Thames.
A splash was followed by silence. The ripples widened and merged with the pall that hung over the river. Out of this murk there rose an arm, and then the blond head of Dutch Gus. He treaded water and then sank.
“Curse you!� said Fay, clasping the weapon and waiting for a sight. “Curse you, Dutch Gus! I wonder if that’s your end?�
Fay turned, backed against the rail, and searched the gloom on the Surrey side. He waited grimly for other evidences of the ambush. He saw none, although it was hardly possible that the German had acted alone.
It came to him, as he uncocked the automatic, that in some unknown manner the German had gotten wind of the project to Holland. It flashed through his brain that, after all, there was a reasonable answer to the attempt on his life. Dutch Gus had followed Saidee Isaacs. It was no coincidence then, that she had called from the tonneau of the black car and her trailers had discovered his presence. The thing worked out. He pocketed the automatic, picked up his bag, glanced at the river, then started toward London Bridge Station. It was seven o’clock.
As he moved swiftly, his eyes searched the throng across the pavement. He wondered if a shadow would be there. He was dealing with not only the Yard, which was too solicitous for his welfare, but also with a determined clique that had already attempted to obtain the key to the cipher. Dutch Gus had searched for Saidee Isaacs and had found her house in Richmond Hill. The German crook, or one of his gang, had held the trail—even to London Bridge Station. Fay felt gripped in the skeins of an enterprise which might have almost any conclusion.
He was not surprised to see the tail-light and then the polished tonneau of the little, black motor where it stood before the station. He crossed the street and stared at the driver. He went on and into the train shed.
A youthful-appearing figure in a long tan coat and green hat passed him, stooped, fingered the top button of a fawn-colored spat and said tersely:
“Carry high, Chester. There’s your man over by the booking office. Look out for Dutch Gus and remember your promise.�
Fay set down his black bag, grasped the lapels of his tweed coat and coughed to hide his astonishment.
The figure in the tan coat was Saidee Isaacs. She finished with the spat, straightened, twinkled over the floor and darted out toward the motor car.
MacKeenon worked through the waiting passengers and touched Fay on the arm.
“This way, mon,� he said. “Ye are punctual.�
Fay was still staring at the doorway through whichSaidee Isaacs had vanished. He turned and picked up the bag. He glanced at the inspector’s long face. Upon it was written a sly satisfaction that one sees on old dogs that have cornered their quarry.
“The siller greyhound?� said MacKeenon dryly as Fay followed him out to the waiting boat train.
“It’s in my pocket.�
“Put it on, mon. It’ll carry ye far.�
Fay set down the bag, reached in his right trousers pocket and brought forth the insignia of the King’s couriers. He pinned it in place upon his left lapel and covered it with his overcoat.
The station-master approached the inspector and indicated that the train was about to pull out.
MacKeenon held up two fingers and smiled. The station-master nodded at the secret signal. Fay felt clutched in the swing of events. He watched the Scotch detective anxiously.
“Weil, mon,â€� said MacKeenon, “ye’re off. Here’s your ticket for the boat to—where ye’re going. Here’s twa envelopes. Guard them well. There’s money in one—there’s Sir Richard’s instructions in th’ other.â€�
Fay reached, took the envelopes and the ticket, and crammed them in his inner coat pocket.
“How about getting through at Dover?� he asked.
“Shew th’ siller greyhound, lad. They will ask ye no questions at all. Many’s the time A’ve done it.�
Fay glanced at the train. The semaphore ahead was set for “go.� The steam plumed from the engine and merged with the fog at the end of the shed.
A bell rang as he thrust a cold finger out to MacKeenon, clutched the little black bag and sprang for the running-board of a first-class compartment. The train started, stopped, then lunged on through the clammy shed. Fay opened a door, tossed in his bag and stumbled aboard. He overlooked one trifle.
MacKeenon had drawn a white handkerchief from his coat pocket—where it was most conveniently handy—and had shown all the evidences of a man doubled up with Spanish influenza.
A little Scot—with a bundle and a hacking cough—passed the inspector and clutched wildly for a handrail on the car behind the first-class one. He hung there by grim strength, and finally succeeded in getting inside a compartment as the train roared out of the station shed and started to tunnel the murky night.
The inspector’s smile was that of a sly gray fox as he turned and hurried from the station. He crossed the bridge on a swift run, barked a surly order to the waiting driver of a two-wheeler, and settled back as the whip cracked smartly over the haunches of a perfectly good horse of the better order.
The driver knew his book. He drove northward and deposited MacKeenon at Liverpool Street Station, where a train was waiting by which a number of British North Sea ports could be reached.
Although he had overlooked it, Fay had company going to a certain neutral country, and company coming by a roundabout route.