Terror Keep

Edgar Wallace

RIGHTLY speaking, it is improper, not to say illegal, for those sadly privileged few who go in and out of Broadmoor Criminal Asylum, to have pointed out to them any particular character, however notorious he may have been or to what heights of public interest his infamy had carried him, before the testifying doctors and a merciful jury consigned him to this place without hope. But often had John Flack been pointed out as he shuffled about the grounds, his hands behind him, his chin on his breast, a tall, lean old man in an ill-fitting suit of drab clothing, who spoke to nobody and was spoken to by few.

"That is Flack—the Flack; the cleverest crook in the world… Crazy John Flack… nine murders… "

Men who were in Broadmoor for isolated homicides were rather proud of Old John in their queer, sane moments. The officers who locked him up at night and watched him as he slept had little to say against him, because he gave no trouble, and through all the six years of his incarceration had never once been seized of those frenzies which so often end in the hospital for some poor innocent devil, and a rubber-padded cell for the frantic author of misfortune.

He spent most of his time writing and reading, for he was something of a genius with his pen, and wrote with extraordinary rapidity. He filled hundreds of little exercise books with his great treatise on crime. The Governor humoured him; allowed him to retain the books, expecting in due course to add them to his already interesting museum.

Once, as a great concession, old Jack gave him a book to read, and the Governor read and gasped. It was entitled "Method of robbing a bank vault when only two guards are employed." The Governor, who had been a soldier, read and read, stopping now and then to rub his head; for this document, written in the neat, legible hand of John Flack, was curiously reminiscent of a divisional order for attack. No detail was too small to be noted; every contingency was provided for. Not only were the constituents of the drug to be employed to "settle the outer watchman" given, but there was an explanatory note which may be quoted:—

"If this drug is not procurable, I advise that the operator should call upon a suburban doctor and describe the following symptoms… .The doctor will then prescribe the drug in a minute quantity. Six bottles of this medicine should be procured, and the following method adopted to extract the drug… ."

"Have you written much like this, Flack?" asked the wondering officer.

"This?" John Flack shrugged his lean shoulders. "I am doing this for amusement, just to test my memory. I have already written sixty-three books on the subject, and those works are beyond improvement. During the six years I have been here, I have not been able to think of a single improvement to my old system."

Was he jesting? Was this a flight of a disordered mind? The Governor, used as he was to his charges and their peculiar ways, was not certain.

"You mean you have written an encyclopaedia of crime?" he asked incredulously. "Where is it to be found?"

Old Flack's thin lips curled in a disdainful smile, but he made no answer.

Sixty-three hand-written volumes represented the life work of John Flack. It was the one achievement upon which he prided himself.

On another occasion when the Governor referred to his extraordinary literary labours, he said:—

"I have put a huge fortune in the hands of any clever man—providing, of course," he mused, "that he is a man of resolution and the books fall into his hands at a very early date—in these days of scientific discovery, what is a novelty to-day is a commonplace to-morrow."

The Governor had his doubts as to the existence of these deplorable volumes, but very soon after the conversation took place he had to revise his judgment. Scotland Yard, which seldom if ever chases chimera, sent down one Chief-Inspector Simpson, who was a man entirely without imagination and had been promoted for it. His interview with Crazy John Flack was a brief one.

"About these books of yours, Jack," he said. "It would be terrible if they fell into wrong hands. Ravini says you've got a hundred volumes hidden somewhere—"

"Ravini?" Old John Flack showed his teeth. "Listen, Simpson! You don't think you're going to keep me in this awful place all my life, do you? If you do, you've got another guess coming. I'll skip one of these odd nights—you can tell the Governor if you like—and then Ravini and I are going to have a little talk."

His voice grew high and shrill. The old mad glitter that Simpson had seen before came back to his eyes.

"Do you ever have day-dreams, Simpson? I have three! I've got a new method of getting away with a million: that's one, but it's not important. Another one is Reeder: you can tell J. G. what I say. It's a dream of meeting him alone one nice, dark, foggy night, when the police can't tell which way the screams are coming. And the third is Ravini. George Ravini's got one chance, and that is for him to die before I get out!"

"You're mad," said Simpson.

"That's what I'm here for," said John Flack truthfully.

This conversation with Simpson and that with the Governor were two of the longest he ever had, all the six years he was in Broadmoor. Mostly when he wasn't writing he strolled about the grounds, his chin on his chest, his hands clasped behind him. Occasionally he reached a certain place near the high wall, and it is said that he threw letters over, though this is very unlikely. What is more possible is that he found a messenger who carried his many and cryptic letters to the outer world and brought in exchange monosyllabic replies. He was a very good friend of the officer in charge of his ward, and one early morning this man was discovered with his throat cut. The ward door was open, and John Flack had gone out into the world to realise his day-dreams.

Chapter 1

 

THERE were two subjects which irritated the mind of Margaret Belman as the Southern Express carried her towards Selford Junction and the branch-line train which crawled from the junction to Siltbury. The first of these was, not unnaturally, the drastic changes she now contemplated, and the effect they already had had upon Mr. J. G. Reeder, that mild and middle-aged man.

When she had announced that she was seeking a post in the country, he might at least have shown some evidence of regret: a certain glumness would have been appropriate at any rate. Instead he had brightened visibly at the prospect.

"I am afraid I shan't be able to come to London very often," she had said.

"That is good news," said Mr. Reeder, and added some banality about the value of periodical changes of air and the beauty of getting near to nature. In fact, he had been more cheerful than he had been for a week, which was rather exasperating.

Margaret Belman's pretty face puckered as she recalled her disappointment and chagrin. All thoughts of dropping this application of hers disappeared. Not that she imagined for one moment that a six-hundred-a-year secretaryship was going to fall into her lap for the mere asking. She was wholly unsuited for the job, she had no experience of hotel work, and the chances of her being accepted were remote.

As to the Italian man who had made so many attempts to make her acquaintance, he was one of the unpleasant commonplaces so familiar to a girl who worked for her living that in ordinary circumstances she would not have given him a second thought.

But that morning he had followed her to the station, and she was certain that he had heard her tell the girl who came with her that she was returning by the 6.15. A policeman would deal effectively with him—if she cared to risk the publicity. But a girl, however sane, shrinks from such an ordeal, and she must deal with him in her own way.

That was not a happy prospect, and the two matters in combination were sufficient to spoil what otherwise might have been a very happy or interesting afternoon. As to Mr. Reeder…

Margaret Belman frowned. She was twenty-three, an age when youngish men are rather tiresome. On the other hand, men in the region of fifty are not especially attractive; and she loathed Mr. Reeder's side-whiskers, that made him look rather like a Scottish butler. Of course, he was a dear… .

Here the train reached the junction. She found herself at the surprisingly small station of Siltbury before she had quite made up her mind whether she was in love with Mr. Reeder or merely annoyed with him.

The driver of the station cab stopped his unhappy-looking horse before the small gateway and pointed with his whip.

"This is the best way in for you, miss," he said. "Mr. Daver's office is at the end of the path."

He was a shrewd old man, who had driven many applicants for the post of secretary to Larmes Keep, and he guessed that this, the prettiest of all, did not come as a guest. In the first place, she brought no baggage, and then too the ticket-collector had come running after her to hand back the return half of the railway ticket which she had absent-mindedly surrendered.

"I'd better wait for you, miss… ?"

"Oh, yes, please," said Margaret Belman hastily as she got down from the dilapidated victoria.

"You got an appointment?"

The cabman was a local character, and local characters assume privileges.

"I ast you," he explained carefully, "because lots of young wimmin have come up to Larmes without appointments, and Mr. Daver wouldn't see 'em. They just cut out the advertisement and come along, but the ad. says write. I suppose I've made a dozen journeys with young wimmin who ain't got appointments. I'm telling you for your own good."

The girl smiled.

"You might have warned them before they left the station," she said good-humouredly, "and saved them the cab fare. Yes, I have an appointment."

From where she stood by the gate she had a clear view of Larmes Keep. It bore no resemblance to an hotel and less to the superior boarding-house that she knew it to be. That part of the house which had been the original Keep was easily distinguished, though the grey, straight walls were masked with ivy that covered also part of the buildings which had been added in the course of the years.

She looked across a smooth green lawn, on which were set a few wicker chairs and tables, to a rose garden which, even in late autumn, was a blaze of colour. Behind this was a belt of pine trees that seemed to run to the cliff's edge. She had a glimpse of a grey-blue sea and a blur of dim smoke from a steamer invisible below the straight horizon. A gentle wind carried the fragrance of the pinks to her, and she sniffed ecstatically.

"Isn't it gorgeous?" she breathed.

The cabman said it "wasn't bad," and pointed with his whip again.

"It's that little square place—only built a few years ago. Mr. Daver is more of a writing gentleman than a boarding-house gentleman."

She unlatched the oaken gate and walked, up the stone path towards the sanctum of the writing gentleman. On either side of the crazy pavement was a deep border of flowers—she might have been passing through a cottage garden.

There was a long window and a small green door to the annexe. Evidently she had been seen, for, as her hand went up to the brass bell-push, the door opened.

It was obviously Mr. Daver himself. A tall thin man of fifty, with a yellow, elf-like face and a smile that brought all her sense of humour into play. Very badly she wanted to laugh. The long upper lip overhung the lower, and except that the face was thin and lined, he had the appearance of some grotesque and foolish mascot. The staring, round, brown eyes, the puckered forehead, and a twist of hair that stood upright on the crown of his head, made him more brownie-like than ever.

"Miss Belman?" he asked, with a certain eagerness.

He lisped slightly, and had a trick of clasping his hands as if he were in an agony of apprehension lest his manner should displease.

"Come into my den," he said, and gave such emphasis to the last word that she nearly laughed again.

The "den" was a very comfortably furnished study, one wall of which was covered with books. Closing the door behind her, he pushed up a chair with a little nervous laugh.

"I'm so very glad you came. Did you have a comfortable journey? I'm sure you did. And is London hot and stuffy? I'm afraid it is. Would you like a cup of tea? Of course you would."

He fired question and answer so rapidly that she had no chance of replying, and he had taken up a telephone and ordered the tea before she could express a wish on the subject.

"You are young—very young "—he shook his head sadly. "Twenty-four—no? Do you use the typewriter? What a ridiculous question to ask!"

"It is very kind of you to see me, Mr. Daver," she said, "and I don't suppose for one moment that I shall suit you. I have had no experience of hotel management, and I realise, from the salary you offer—"

"Quiet," said Mr. Daver, shaking his head solemnly, "that is what I require. There is very little work, but I wished to be relieved even of that little. My own labours "—he waved his hand to a pedestal desk littered with papers—"are colossal. I need a lady to keep accounts—to watch my interests. Somebody I can trust. I believe in faces, do you? I see that you do. And in the character of handwriting? You believe in that also. I have advertised for three months and have interviewed thirty-five applicants. Impossible! Their voices—terrible! I judge people by their voices—so do you. On Monday when you telephoned I said to myself, 'The Voice!'"

He was clasping his hands together so tightly that his knuckles showed white, and this time her laughter was almost beyond arrest.

"But, Mr. Daver, I know nothing of hotel management. I think I could learn, and I want the position, naturally. The salary is terribly generous."

"'Terribly generous,'" repeated the man in a murmur. "How curious those words sound in juxtaposition! My housekeeper. How kind of you to bring the tea, Mrs. Burton!"

The door had opened and a woman bearing a silver tray came in. She was dressed very neatly in black. The faded eyes scarcely looked at Margaret as she stood meekly waiting whilst Mr. Daver spoke.

"Mrs. Burton, this is the new secretary to the company. She must have the best room in the Keep—the Blue Room. But—ah!"—he pinched his lip anxiously—"blue may not be your colour?"

Margaret laughed.

"Any colour is my colour," she said. "But I haven't decided—"

"Go with Mrs. Burton; see the house—your office, your room. Mrs. Burton!"

He pointed to the door, and before the girl knew what she was doing she had followed the housekeeper through the door. A narrow passage connected the private office of Mr. Daver with the house, and Margaret was ushered into a large and lofty room which covered the superficial area of the Keep.

"The Banquittin' 'All," said Mrs. Burton in a thin Cockney voice remarkable for its monotony. "It's used as a lounge. We've only got three boarders. Mr. Daver's very partic'lar. We get a lot in for the winter."

"Three boarders isn't a very paying proposition," said the girl.

Mrs. Burton sniffed.

"Mr. Daver don't want it to pay. It's the company he likes. He only turned it into a boardin' house because he likes to see people come and go without having to talk to 'em. It's a nobby."

"A what?" asked the puzzled girl. "Oh, you mean a hobby?"

"I said a nobby," said Mrs. Burton, in her listless, uncomplaining way.

Beyond the hall was a small and cosier sitting-room with french windows opening on to the lawn. Outside the window three people sat at tea. One was an elderly clergyman with a strong, hard face. He was eating toast and reading a church paper, oblivious of his companions. The second of the party was a pale-faced girl about Margaret's own age. In spite of her pallor she was extraordinarily beautiful. A pair of big, dark eyes surveyed the visitor for a moment, and then returned to her companion, a military-looking man of forty.

Mrs. Burton waited until they were ascending the broad stairway to the upper floor before she "introduced" them.

"The clergyman's a Reverend Dean from South Africa, the young lady's Miss Olga Crewe, the other gent is Colonel Hothling—they're boarders. This is your room, miss."

It was indeed a gem of an apartment; the sort of room that Margaret Belman had dreamt about. It was exquisitely furnished, and, like all the other rooms at Larmes Keep (as she discovered later), was provided with its private bathroom. The walls were panelled to half their height, the ceilings heavily beamed. She guessed that beneath the parquet was the original stone-flagged floor.

Margaret looked and sighed. It was going to be very hard to refuse this post—and why she should think of refusing at all she could not for the life of her understand.

"It's a beautiful room," she said, and Mrs. Burton cast an apathetic eye round the apartment.

"It's old," she said. "I don't like old houses. I used to live in Brixton—"

She stopped abruptly, sniffed in a deprecating way, and jingled the keys that she carried in her hand.

"You're suited, I suppose?"

"Suited? You mean am I taking the appointment? I don't know, yet."

Mrs. Burton looked round vaguely. The girl had the impression that she was trying to say something in praise of the place—something that would prejudice her in favour of accepting the appointment. Then she spoke.

"The food's good," she said, and Margaret smiled.

When she came back through the hall she saw the three people she had seen at tea. The colonel was walking by himself; the clergyman and the pale-faced girl were strolling across the lawn talking to one another. Mr. Daver was sitting at his desk, his high forehead resting on his palm, and he was biting the end of a pen as Mrs. Burton closed the door on them.

"You like the room: naturally. You will start—when? Next Monday week, I think. What a relief! You have seen Mrs. Burton." He wagged a finger at her roguishly. "Ah! Now you know! It is impossible! Can I leave her to meet the duchess and speed the duke? Can I trust her to adjust the little quarrels that naturally arise between guests? You are right—I can't. I must have a lady here—I must, I must!"

He nodded emphatically, his impish brown eyes fixed on hers, the bulging upper lip grotesquely curved in a delighted grin.

"My work suffers, as you say: constantly to be brought from my studies to settle such matters as the fixing of a tennis net—intolerable!"

"You write a great deal?" she managed to ask. She felt she must postpone her decision to the last possible moment.

"A great deal. On crime. Ah, you are interested? I am preparing an encyclopaedia of crime!" He said this impressively, dramatically.

"On crime?"

He nodded.

"It is one of my hobbies. I am a rich man and can afford hobbies. This place is a hobby. I lose four thousand a year, but I am satisfied. I pick and choose my own guests. If one bores me I tell him to go—that his room has been taken. Could I do that if they were my friends? No. They interest me. They fill the house; they give me company and amusement. When will you come?"

She hesitated

"I think—"

"Monday week? Excellent!" He shook her hand vigorously. "You need not be lonely. If my guests bore you, invite your own friends. Let them come as the guests of the house. Until Monday!"

She was walking down the garden path to the waiting cabman, a little dazed, more than a little undecided.

"Did you get the place, miss?" asked the friendly cabman.

"I suppose I did," replied Margaret.

She looked back towards Larmes Keep. The lawns were empty, but near at hand she had one glimpse of a woman. Only for a second, and then she disappeared in a belt of laurel that ran parallel with the boundary wall of the property. Evidently there was a rough path through the bushes, and Mrs. Burton had sought this hiding-place. Her hands covered her face as she staggered forward blindly, and the faint sound of her sobs came back to the astonished girl.

"That's the housekeeper—she's a bit mad," said the cabman calmly.

Chapter 2

 

GEORGE RAVINI was not an unpleasant-looking man. From his own point of view, which was naturally prejudiced, he was extremely attractive, with his crisp brown hair, his handsome Neapolitan features, his height, and his poise. And when to his natural advantages were added the best suit that Savile Row could create, the most spotless of grey hats, and the malacca sword-stick on which one kid-gloved hand rested as upon the hilt of a foil, the shiniest of enamelled shoes and the finest of grey silk socks, the picture was well framed and embellished. Greatest embellishment of all were George Ravini's Luck Rings. He was a superstitious man and was addicted to charms. On the little finger of his right hand were three gold rings, and in each ring three large diamonds. The Luck Stones of Ravini were one of the traditions of Saffron Hill.

Most of the time he had the half-amused, half-bored smile of a man for whom life held no mysteries and could offer, in experience, little that was new. And the smile was justified, for George knew most of the things that were happening in London or likely to happen. He had worked outward from a one-room home in Saffron Hill, where he first saw the light, had enlarged the narrow horizons which surrounded his childhood, so that now, in place of the poverty-stricken child who had shared a bed with his father's performing monkey, he was not only the possessor of a classy flat in Half Moon Street but the owner of the block in which it was situated. His balance at the Continental Bank was a generous one; he had securities which brought him an income beyond his needs, and a larger revenue from the two night clubs and spieling houses which were in his control, to say nothing of the perquisites which came his way from a score of other sources. The word of Ravini was law from Leyton to Clerkenwell, his fiats were obeyed within a mile radius of Fitzroy Square, and no other gang leader in London might raise his head without George's permission save at the risk of waking in the casualty ward of the Middlesex Hospital entirely surrounded by bandages.

He waited patiently on the broad space of Waterloo Station, occasionally consulting his gold wrist-watch, and surveyed with a benevolent and proprietorial eye the stream of life that flowed from the barriers.

The station clock showed a quarter after six: he glanced at his watch and scanned the crowd that was debouching from No. 7 platform. After a few minutes' scrutiny he saw the girl, and with a pat to his cravat and a touch to the brim of his hat which set it tilting, he strolled to meet her.

Margaret Belman was too intent with her own thoughts to be thinking about the debonair and youngish man who had so often sought an introduction by the conventional method of pretending they had met before. Indeed, in the excitement of her visit to Larmes Keep, she had forgotten that this pestiferous gallant existed or was likely to be waiting for her on her return from the country.

George Ravini stopped and waited for her approach, smiling his approval. He liked slim girls of her colouring: girls who dressed rather severely and wore rather nice stockings and plain little hats. He raised his hat; the Luck Stones glittered beautifully.

"Oh!" said Margaret Belman, and stopped, too.

"Good evening, Miss Belman," said George, flashing his white teeth. "Quite a coincidence meeting you again."

As she went to walk past him he fell in by her side.

"I wish I had my car here, I might have driven you home," he said conversationally. "I've got a new Rolls—rather a neat little machine. I don't use it a great deal—I like to walk from Half Moon Street."

"Are you walking to Half Moon Street now?" she asked quietly.

But George was a man of experience.

"Your way is my way," he said.

She stopped.

"What is your name?" she asked.

"Smith—Anderton Smith," he answered readily. "Why do you want to know?"

"I want to tell the next policeman we meet," she said, and Mr. Ravini, not unaccustomed to such threats, was amused.

"Don't be a silly little girl," he said. "I'm doing no harm, and you don't want to get your name in the newspapers. Besides, I should merely say that you asked me to walk with you and that we were old friends."

She looked at him steadily.

"I may meet a friend very soon who will need a lot of convincing," she said. "Will you please go away?"

George was pleased to stay, as he explained.

"What a foolish young lady you are!" he began. "I'm merely offering you the common courtesies—"

A hand gripped his arm and slowly pulled him round—and this in broad daylight on Waterloo Station, under the eyes of at least two of his own tribe, Mr. Ravini's dark eyes snapped dangerously.

And yet seemingly his assailant was a most inoffensive man. He was tall and rather melancholy-looking. He wore a frock-coat buttoned tightly across his breast, and a high, flat-crowned, hard felt hat. On his biggish nose a pair of steel-rimmed pince-nez were set at an awkward angle. A slither of sandy side-whiskers decorated his cheek, and hooked to his arm was a tightly furled umbrella. Not that George examined these details with any care: they were rather familiar to him, for he knew Mr. J. G. Reeder, Detective to the Public Prosecutor's Office, and the fight went out of his eyes.

"Why, Mr. Reeder!" he said, with a geniality that almost sounded sincere. "This is a pleasant surprise. Meet my young lady friend, Miss Belman—I was just taking her along—"

"Not to the Flotsam Club for a cup of tea?" murmured Mr. Reeder in a tone of pain. "Not to Harraby's Restaurant? Don't tell me that, Georgio! Dear me! How interesting either experience would be!"

He beamed upon the scowling Italian.

"At the Flotsam," he went on, "you would have been able to show the young lady where your friends caught young Lord Fallen for three thousand pounds only the night before last—so they tell me. At Harraby's you might have shown her that interesting little room where the police come in by the back way whenever you consider it expedient to betray one of your friends. She has missed a treat!"

George Ravini's smile did not harmonise with his sudden pallor.

"Now listen, Mr. Reeder—"

"I'm sorry I can't, Georgio." Mr. Reeder shook his head mournfully. "My time is precious. Yet, I will spare you one minute to tell you that Miss Belman is a very particular friend of mine. If her experience of to-day is repeated, who knows what might happen, for I am, as you probably know, a malicious man." He eyed the Italian thoughtfully. "Is it malice, I wonder, which inhibits a most interesting revelation which I have on the tip of my tongue? I wonder. The human mind, Mr. Ravini, is a curious and complex thing. Well, well, I must be getting along. Give my regards to your criminal associates, and if you find yourself shadowed by a gentleman from Scotland Yard, bear him no resentment. He is doing his duty. And do not lose sight of my—um—warning about this lady."

"I have said nothing to this young lady that a gentleman shouldn't."

Mr. Reeder peered at Ravini.

"If you have," he said, "you may expect to see me some time this evening—and I shall not come alone. In fact"—this in a most confidential tone—"I shall bring sufficient strong men with me to take from you the keys of your box in the Fetter Lane Safe Deposit."

That was all he said, and Ravini reeled under the threat. Before he had quite recovered, Mr. J. G. Reeder and his charge had disappeared into the throng.

Chapter 3

 

"AN interesting man," said Mr. Reeder as the cab crossed Westminster Bridge. "He is in fact the most interesting man I know at this particular moment. It was fate that I should walk into him as I did. But I wish he wouldn't wear diamond rings!" He stole a sidelong glance at his companion. "Well, did you—um—like the place?"

"It is very beautiful," she said, without enthusiasm, "but it is rather far away from London." His face fell.

"Have you declined the post?" he asked anxiously.

She half turned in the seat and looked at him. "Mr. Reeder, I honestly believe you wish to see the back of me!"

To her surprise Mr. Reeder went very red. "Why—um—of course I do—I don't, I mean. But it seems a very good position, even as a temporary position." He blinked at her. "I shall miss you, I really shall miss you. Miss—um—Margaret. We have become such"—here he swallowed something— "good friends, but the—a certain business is on my mind—I mean, I am rather perturbed."

He looked from one window to the other as though he suspected an eavesdropper riding on the step of the cab, and then, lowering his voice:

"I have never discussed with you, my dear Miss—um—Margaret, the rather unpleasant details of my trade; but there is, or was, a gentleman named Flack—F-l-a-c-k," he spelt it. "You remember?" he asked anxiously, and when she shook her head: "I hoped that you would. One reads about these things in the public press. But five years ago you would have been a child—"

"You're very flattering," she smiled. "I was in fact a grown-up young lady of eighteen."

"Were you really?" asked Mr. Reeder in a hushed voice. "You surprise me! Well… Mr. Flack was the kind of person one so frequently reads about in the pages of the sensational novelist—who has not too keen a regard for the probabilities and facts of life. A master criminal, the organiser of—um—a confederation, or, as vulgar people would call it, gang."

He sighed and closed his eyes, and she thought for one moment he was praying for the iniquitous criminal.

"A brilliant criminal—it is a terrible thing to confess, but I have a reluctant admiration for him. You see, as I have so often explained to you, I am cursed with a criminal mind. But he was mad."

"All criminals are mad: you have explained that so often," she said, a little tartly, for she was not anxious that the conversation should drift from her immediate affairs.

"But he was really mad," said Mr. Reeder with great earnestness, and tapped his forehead deliberately. "His very madness was his salvation. He did daring things, but with the cunning of a madman. He shot down two policemen in cold blood—he did this at midday in a crowded City street and got away. We caught him at last, of course. People like that are always caught in this country. I—um—assisted. In fact, I—well, I assisted! That is why I am thinking of our friend Georgio; for it was Mr. Ravini who betrayed him to us for two thousand pounds. I negotiated the deal, Mr. Ravini being a criminal… "

She stared at him open-mouthed.

"That Italian man? You don't mean that?"

Mr. Reeder nodded. "Mr. Ravini had dealings with the Flack gang, and by chance learnt of Old John's whereabouts. We took old John Flack in his sleep." Mr. Reeder sighed again. "He said some very bitter things about me. People, when they are arrested, frequently exaggerate the shortcomings of their—er—captors."

"Was he tried?" she asked.

"He was tried," said Mr. Reeder, "on a charge of murder. But, of course, he was mad. 'Guilty but insane' was the verdict, and he was sent to Broadmoor Criminal Lunatic Asylum."

He searched feebly in his pockets, produced a very limp packet of cigarettes, extracted one and asked permission to smoke. She watched the damp squib of a thing drooping pathetically from his lower lip. His eyes were staring sombrely through the window at the green of the park through which they were passing, and he seemed entirely absorbed in his contemplation of nature.

"But what has that to do with my going into the country?"

Mr. Reeder brought his eyes round to survey her.

"Mr. Flack was a very vindictive man," he said. "A very brilliant man—I hate confessing this. And he has—um—a particular grudge against me, and being what he is, it would not be long before he discovered that I—er—I—am rather attached to you, Miss—Margaret."

A light dawned on her, and her whole attitude towards him changed as she gripped his arm. "You mean, you want me out of London in case something happens? But what could happen? He's in Broadmoor, isn't he?"

Mr. Reeder scratched his chin and looked up at the roof of the cab.

"He escaped a week ago—hum! He is, I think, in London at this moment."

Margaret Belman gasped.

"Does this Italian—this Ravini man—know?"

"He does not know," said Mr. Reeder carefully, "but I think he will learn—yes, I think he will learn."

A week later, after Margaret Belman had gone, with some misgivings, to take up her new appointment, all Mr. Reeder's doubts as to the location of John Flack were dissipated.

There was some slight disagreement between Margaret Belman and Mr. Reeder, and it happened at lunch on the day she left London. It started in fun—not that Mr. Reeder was ever kittenish—by a certain suggestion she made. Mr. Reeder demurred. How she ever summoned the courage to tell him he was old-fashioned, Margaret never knew—but she did.

"Of course, you could shave them off," she said scornfully. "It would make you look ten years younger."

"I don't think, my dear—Miss—um—Margaret, that I wish to look ten years younger," said Mr. Reeder.

A certain tenseness followed, and she went down to Siltbury feeling a little uncomfortable. Yet her heart warmed to him as she realised that his anxiety to get her out of London was dictated by a desire for her own safety. It was not until she was nearing her destination that she realised that he himself was in no ordinary danger. She must write and tell him she was sorry. She wondered who the Flacks were; the name was familiar to her, though in the days of their activity she gave little or no attention to people of their kind.

Mr. Daver, looking more impish than ever, gave her a brief interview on her arrival. It was he who took her to her bureau and very briefly explained her duties. They were neither heavy nor complicated, and she was relieved to discover that she had practically nothing whatever to do with the management of Larmes Keep, That was in the efficient hands of Mrs. Burton.

The staff of the hotel were housed in two cottages about a quarter of a mile from the Keep, only Mrs. Burton living on the premises.

"This keeps us more select," said Mr. Daver. "Servants are an abominable nuisance. You agree with me? I thought you would. If they are needed in the night, both cottages have telephones, and Grainger, the porter, has a pass-key to the outer door. That is an excellent arrangement, of which you approve? I am sure you do."

Conversation with Mr. Daver was a little superfluous, He supplied his own answers to all questions.

He was leaving the bureau when she remembered his great study.

"Mr. Daver, do you know anything about the Flacks?"

He frowned.

"Flax? Let me see, what is flax—"

She spelt the name.

"A friend of mine told me about them the other day," she said. "I thought you would know the name. They are a gang of criminals—"

"Flack! To be sure, to be sure! Dear me, how very interesting! Are you also a criminologist? John Flack, George Flack, Augustus Flack"—he spoke rapidly, ticking them off on his long, tobacco-stained fingers. "John Flack is in a criminal lunatic asylum; his two brothers escaped to the Argentine. Terrible fellows, terrible, terrible fellows! What a marvellous institution is our police force! How wonderful is Scotland Yard! You agree with me? I was sure you would. Flack!" He frowned and shook his head "I thought of dealing with these people in a short monograph, but my data are not complete. Do you know them?"

She shook her head smilingly.

"No, I haven't that advantage."

"Terrible creatures," said Mr. Daver. "Amazing creatures. Who is your friend, Miss Belman? I would like to meet him. Perhaps he could tell me something more about them."

Margaret received the suggestion with dismay.

"Oh, no, you're not likely to meet him," she said hurriedly, "and I don't think he would talk even if you met him—perhaps it was indiscreet of me to mention him at all."

The conversation must have weighed on Mr. Daver's mind, for just as she was leaving her office that night for her room, a very tired girl, he knocked at the door, opened it at her invitation and stood in the doorway.

"I have been going into the records of the Flacks," he said, "and it is surprising how little information there is. I have a newspaper cutting which says that John Flack is dead. He was the man who went into Broadmoor. Is he dead?"

Margaret shook her head.

"I couldn't tell you," she replied untruthfully. "I only heard a casual reference to him."

Mr. Daver scratched his round chin.

"I thought possibly somebody might have told you a few facts which you, so to speak—a laywoman!"—he giggled—"might have regarded as unimportant, but which I—"

He hesitated expectantly.

"That is all I know, Mr. Daver," said Margaret.

She slept soundly that night, the distant hush-hush of the waves as they rolled up the long beach of Siltbury Bay lulling her to dreamless slumber.

Her duties did not begin till after breakfast, which she had in her bureau, and the largest part was the checking of the accounts. Apparently Mrs. Burton attended to that side of the management, and it was only at the month's end, when cheques were to be drawn, that her work was likely to be heavy. In the main her day was taken up with correspondence. There were some hundred and forty applicants for her post who had to be answered; there were in addition a number of letters from people who desired accommodation at Larmes Keep. All these had to be taken to Mr. Daver, and it was remarkable how fastidious a man he was. For example:

"The Reverend John Quinton? No, no; we have one parson in the house, that is enough. Tell him we are very sorry, but we are full up. Mrs. Bagley wishes to bring her daughter? Certainly not! I cannot have children distracting me with their noise. You agree? I see you do. Who is this woman… 'coming for a rest cure'? That means she's ill. I cannot have Larmes Keep turned into a sanatorium. You may tell them that there will be no accommodation until after Christmas. After Christmas they can all come—I am going abroad."

The evenings were her own. She could, if she desired, go into Siltbury, which boasted two cinemas and a pierrot party, and Mr. Daver put the hotel car at her disposal for the purpose. She preferred, however, to wander through the grounds. The estate was a much larger one than she had supposed. Behind, to the south of the house, it extended for half a mile, the boundary to the east being represented by the cliffs, along which a breast-high rubble wall had been built, and with excellent reason, for here the cliff fell sheer two hundred feet to the rocks below. At one place there had been a little landslide, the wall had been carried away and the gap had been temporarily filled by a wooden fence. Some attempt had been made to create a nine-hole golf course, she saw as she wandered round, but evidently Mr. Daver had grown tired of this enterprise, for the greens were knee-deep in waving grasses.

At the south-west corner of the house, and distant a hundred yards, was a big clump of rhododendrons, and this she explored, following a twisting path that led to the heart of the bushes. Quite unexpectedly she came upon an old well. The brickwork about it was in ruins; the well itself was boarded in. On the weather-beaten roof-piece above the windlass was a small wooden notice-board, evidently fixed for the enlightenment of visitors:

"This well was used from 935 to 1794. It was filled in by the present owners of the property in May, 1914, one hundred and thirty-five cartloads of rock and gravel being used for the purpose."

It was a pleasant occupation, standing by that ancient well and picturing the collar serfs and bare-footed peasants who through the ages had stood where she was standing. As she came out of the bushes she saw the pale-faced Olga Crewe.

Margaret had not spoken either to the colonel or to the clergyman; either she had avoided them, or they her. Olga Crewe she had not seen, and now she would have turned away, but the girl moved across to intercept her.

"You are the new secretary, aren't you?"

Her voice was musical, rather alluring. "Custardy" was Margaret's mental classification.

"Yes, I'm Miss Belman."

The girl nodded. "My name you know, I suppose? Are you going to be terribly bored here?"

"I don't think so," smiled Margaret. "It is a beautiful spot."

The eyes of Olga Crewe surveyed the scene critically.

"I suppose it is: very beautiful, yes, but one gets very tired of beauty after a few years."

Margaret listened in astonishment.

"Have you been here so long?"

"I've practically lived here since I was a child. I thought Joe would have told you that: he's an inveterate old gossip."

"Joe?" She was puzzled.

"The cab-driver, news-gatherer, and distributor."

She looked at Larmes Keep and frowned.

"Do you know what they used to call this place, Miss Belman? The House of Tears—the Chateau des Larmes."

"Why ever?" asked Margaret.

Olga Crewe shrugged her pretty shoulders.

"Some sort of tradition, I suppose, that goes back to the days of the Baron Augernvert, who built it. The locals have corrupted the name to Larmes Keep. You ought to see the dungeons."

"Are there dungeons?" asked Margaret in surprise, and Olga nodded. For the first time she seemed amused.

"If you saw them and the chains and the rings in the walls and the stone floors worn thin by bare feet, you might guess how its name arose."

Margaret stared back towards the Keep. The sun was setting behind it, and silhouetted as it was against the red light there was something ominous and sinister in that dark, squat pile.

"How very unpleasant!" she said, and shivered.

Olga Crewe laughed.

"Have you seen the cliffs?" she said, and led the way back to the long wall, and for a quarter of an hour they stood, their arms resting on the parapet, looking down into the gloom.

"You ought to get someone to row you round the face of the cliff. It's simply honeycombed with caves," she said. "There's one at the water's edge that tunnels under the Keep. When the tides are unusually high they are flooded. I wonder Daver doesn't write a book about it."

There was just the faintest hint of a sneer in her tone, but it did not escape Margaret's attention.

"That must be the entrance," she said, pointing down to a swirl of water that seemed to run right up to the face of the cliff.

Olga nodded.

"At high tide you wouldn't notice that," she said, and then, turning abruptly, she asked the girl if she had seen the bathing-pool.

This was an oblong bath, sheltered by high box hedges and lined throughout with blue tiles; a delightfully inviting plunge.

"Nobody uses it but myself. Daver would die at the thought of jumping in."

Whenever she referred to Mr. Daver if was in a scarcely veiled tone of contempt. She was not more charitable when she referred to other guests. As they were nearing the house Olga said, apropos of nothing:

"I shouldn't talk too much to Daver if I were you. Let him do the talking: he likes it."

"What do you mean?" asked Margaret quietly; but at that moment Olga left her side without any word of farewell and went towards the colonel, who was standing, a cigar between his teeth, watching their approach.

The House of Tears!

Margaret remembered the title as she was undressing that night, and, despite her self-possession, shivered a little.

Chapter 4

 

THE policeman who stood on the corner where Bennett Street meets Hyde Lane had the world to himself. It was nearing three o'clock on a sultry spring morning, airless, unpleasantly warm. Somewhere in South London there was a thunderstorm; the hollow echoes of it came at odd intervals. The good and bad of Mayfair slept—all, apparently, except Mr. J. G. Reeder, Friend of the Law and Terror of Criminals. Police-Officer Dyer saw the yellow light behind the casemented window and smiled benevolently.

It was so still a night that when he heard a key turn in a lock he looked over his shoulder, thinking the noise was from the house immediately behind him. But the door did not move. Instead he saw a woman appear on the top doorstep five houses away. She wore a flimsy negligee.

"Officer!"

The voice was low, cultured, very urgent. He moved more quickly towards her than policemen usually move.

"Anything wrong, miss?"

Her face, he noticed in his worldly way, was "made up"; the cheeks heavily rouged, the lips a startling red for one who was afraid. He supposed her to be pretty in normal circumstances, but was doubtful as to her age. She wore a long black dressing-gown, fastened up to her chin. Also he saw that the hand that gripped the railing which flanked the steps glittered in the light of the street lamps.

"I don't know… quite. I am alone in the house and I thought I heard… something."

Three words to a breath. Obviously she was terrified. "Haven't you any servants in the house?" The constable was surprised, a little shocked.

"No. I only came back from Paris at midnight—we took the house furnished—I think the servants I engaged mistook the date of my return. I am Mrs. Granville Fornese."

In a dim way he remembered the name. It had that value of familiarity which makes even the most assured hesitate to deny acquaintance. It sounded grand, too—the name of a Somebody. And Bennett Street was a place where Somebodies live. The officer peered into the dark hall. "If you would put the light on, madame, I will look round."

She shook her head: he almost felt the shiver of her. "The lights aren't working. That is what frightened me. They were quite all right when I went to bed at one o'clock. Something woke me… I don't know what… and I switched on the lamp by the side of my bed. And there was no light. I keep a little portable battery lamp in my bag. I found this—and turned it on."

She stopped, set her teeth in a mirthless smile. Police-Officer Dyer saw the dark eyes were staringly wide.

"I saw… I don't know what it was… just a patch of black, like somebody crouching by the wall. Then it disappeared. And the door of my room was wide open. I closed and locked it when I went to bed."

The officer pushed open the door wider, sent a white beam of light along the passage. There was a small hall table against the wall, where a telephone instrument stood. Striding into the hall, he took up the instrument and lifted the hook: the 'phone was dead. "Does this—" So far he got with the question, and then stopped.

From somewhere above he heard a faint but sustained creak—the sound of a foot resting on a faulty floorboard. Mrs. Fornese was still standing in the open doorway, and he went back to her.

"Have you a key to this door?" he asked, and she shook her head.

He felt along the inner, surface of the lock and found a stop-catch, pushed it up.

"I'll have to 'phone from somewhere. You'd better… "

What had she best do? He was a plain police-constable, and was confronted with a delicate situation.

"Is there anywhere you could go… friends?"

"No." There was no indecision in that word. And then: "Doesn't Mr. Reeder live opposite? Somebody told me… "

In the house opposite a light showed. Mr. Dyer surveyed the lighted window dubiously. It stood for the elegant apartment of one who held a post superior to chief constables. No. 7, Bennett Street had been at a recent period converted into flats, and into one of these Mr. Reeder had moved from his suburban home. Why he should take a flat in that exclusive and interesting neighbourhood, nobody knew. He was credited by criminals with being fabulously rich; he was undoubtedly a snug man.

The constable hesitated, searched his pocket for the smallest coin of the realm, and, leaving the lady on the doorstep, crossed the road and tossed a ha'penny to the window. A second and the casement window was pushed open.

"Excuse me, Mr. Reeder, could I see you for a second?"

The head and shoulders disappeared, and in a very short time Mr. Reeder appeared in the doorway. He was so fully dressed that he might have been expecting the summons. The frock coat was as tightly buttoned, on the back of his head his flat-topped felt hat, on his nose the pince-nez through which he never looked were askew.

"Anything wrong, constable?" he asked gently.

"Could I use your phone? There is a lady over there—Mrs. Fornese .. alone… heard somebody in the house. I heard it, too… "

He heard a short scream… a crash, and jumped round. The door of No. 4 was closed. Mrs. Fornese had disappeared.

In six strides Mr. Reeder had crossed the road and was at the door. Stooping, he pressed in the flap of the letter-box and listened. No noise but the ticking of a clock… a faint sighing sound.

"Hum!" said Mr. Reeder, scratching his long nose thoughtfully. "Hum… would you be so kind as to tell me all about this—um—happening?"

The police-constable repeated the story, more coherently.

"You fastened the spring lock so that it would not move? A wise precaution."

Mr. Reeder frowned. Without another word he crossed the road and disappeared into his flat. There was a small drawer at the back of his writing bureau, and this he unlocked. Taking out a leather hold-all, he unrolled this, and selecting three curious steel instruments that were not unlike small hooks, fitted one into a wooden handle and returned to the constable.

"This, I fear, is… I will not say 'unlawful,' for a gentleman of my position is incapable of an unlawful act… .Shall I say 'unusual'?"

All the time he talked in his soft, apologetic way he was working at the lock, turning the instrument first one way and then the other. Presently with a click the lock turned and Mr. Reeder pushed open the door.

"I think I had best borrow your lamp—thank you."

He took the electric lamp from the constable's hand and flung a white circle of light into the hall. There was no sign of life. He cast the beam up the stairs, and, stooping his head, listened. There came to his ear no sound, and noiselessly he stepped further into the hall.

The passage continued beyond the foot of the stairs, and at the end was a door which apparently gave to the domestic quarters of the house. To the policeman's surprise, it was this door which Mr. Reeder examined. He turned the handle, but the door did not move, and, stooping, he squinted through the keyhole.

"There was somebody… upstairs," began the policeman with respectful hesitation.

"There was somebody upstairs," repeated Mr. Reeder absently. "You heard a creaky board, I think."

He came slowly back to the foot of the stairs and looked up. Then he cast his lamp along the floor of the hall.

"No sawdust," he said, speaking to himself, "so it can't be that."

"Shall I go up, sir?" said the policeman, and his foot was on the lower tread when Mr. Reeder, displaying unexpected strength in so weary-looking a man, pushed him back.

"I think not, constable," he said firmly. "If the lady is upstairs she will have heard our voices. But the lady is not upstairs."

"Do you think she's in the kitchen, sir?" asked the puzzled policeman.

Mr. Reeder shook his head sadly.

"Alas! how few modern women spend their time in a kitchen!" he said, and made an impatient clucking noise, but whether this was a protest against the falling off of woman's domestic qualities, or whether he "tchk'd" for some other reason, it was difficult to say, for he was a very preoccupied man.

He swung the lamp back to the door.

"I thought so," he said, with a note of relief in his voice. "There are two walking-sticks in the hall-stand. Will you get one of them, constable?"

Wondering, the officer obeyed, and came back, handing a long cherrywood stick with a crooked handle to Mr. Reeder, who examined it in the light of his lamp.

"Dust-covered, and left by the previous owner. The spike in place of the ferrule shows that it was purchased in Switzerland—probably you are not interested in detective stories and have never read of the gentleman whose method I am plagiarising?"

"No, sir," said the mystified officer.

Mr. Reeder examined the stick again.

"It is a thousand pities that it is not a fishing-rod," he said. "Will you stay here?—and don't move."

And then he began to crawl up the stairs on his knees, waving his stick in front of him in the most eccentric manner. He held it up, lifting the full length of his arm, and as he crawled upwards he struck at imaginary obstacles. Higher and higher he went, silhouetted against the reflected light of the lamp he carried, and Police Constable Dyer watched him open-mouthed.

"Don't you think I'd better—"

He got as far as this when the thing happened. There was an explosion that deafened him; the air was suddenly filled with flying clouds of smoke and dust; he heard the crackle of wood and the pungent scent of something burning. Dazed and stupefied, he stood stock still, gaping up at Mr. Reeder, who was sitting on a stair, picking little splinters of wood from his coat.

"I think you may come up in perfect safety," said Mr. Reeder with great calmness.

"What—what was it?" asked the officer.

The enemy of criminals was dusting his hat tenderly, though this the officer could not see.

"You may come up."

P.G. Dyer ran up the stairs and followed the other along the broad landing till he stopped and focused in the light of his lamp a queer-looking and obviously home-made spring gun, the muzzle of which was trained through the banisters so that it covered the stairs up which he had ascended.

"There was," said Mr. Reeder carefully, "a piece of black thread stretched across the stairs, so that any person who bulged or broke that thread was certain to fire the gun."

"But—but the lady?"

Mr. Reeder coughed.

"I do not think she is in the house," he said, ever so gently. "I rather imagine that she went through the back. There is a back entrance to the mews, is there not? And that by this time she is a long way from the house. I sympathise with her—this little incident has occurred too late for the morning newspapers, and she will have to wait for the sporting editions before she learns that I am still alive."

The police-officer drew a long breath.

"I think I'd better report this, sir."

"I think you had," sighed Mr. Reeder. "And will you ring up Inspector Simpson and tell him that if he comes this way I should like to see him?"

Again the policeman hesitated.

"Don't you think we'd better search the house?… they may have done away with this woman."

Mr. Reeder shook his head.

"They have not done away with any woman," he said decisively. "The only thing they have done away with is one of Mr. Simpson's pet theories."

"But, Mr. Reeder, why did this lady come to the door—"

Mr. Reeder patted him benignantly on the arm, as a mother might pat a child who asked a foolish question.

"The lady had been standing at the door for half an hour," he said gently; "on and off for half an hour, constable, hoping against hope, one imagines, that she would attract my attention. But I was looking at her from a room that was not—er—illuminated. I did not show myself because I—er—have a very keen desire to live!"

On this baffling note Mr. Reeder went into his house.

Chapter 5

 

MR. REEDER sat at his ease, wearing a pair of grotesquely painted velvet slippers, a cigarette hanging from his lips, and explained to the detective inspector, who had called in the early hours of the morning, his reason for adopting a certain conclusion.

"I do not imagine for one moment that it was my friend Ravini. He is less subtle, in addition to which he has little or no intelligence. You will find that this coup has been planned for months, though it has only been put into execution to-day. No. 307, Bennett Street, is the property of an old gentleman who spends most of his life in Italy. He has been in the habit of letting the house furnished for years: in fact, it was vacated only a month ago."

"You think, then," said the puzzled Simpson, "that the people, whoever they were, rented the house—"

Mr. Reeder shook his head.

"Even that I doubt," he said. "They have probably an order to view, and in some way got rid of the caretaker. They knew I would be at home last night, because I am always at home—um—on most nights since… " Mr. Reeder coughed in his embarrassment. "A young friend of mine has recently left London… .I do not like going out alone."

And, to Simpson's horror, a pinkish flush suffused the sober countenance of Mr. Reeder.

"A few weeks ago," he went on, with a pitiable attempt at airiness, "I used to dine out, attend a concert or one of those exquisite melodramas which have such an appeal for me."

"Whom do you suspect?" interrupted Simpson, who had not been called from his bed in the middle of the night to discuss the virtues of melodrama. "The Gregorys or the Donovans?" He named two groups that had excellent reason to be annoyed with Mr. Reeder and his methods. J. G. Reeder shook his head.

"Neither," he said. "I think—indeed I am sure—that we must go back to ancient history for the cause."

Simpson opened his eyes.

"Not Flack?" he asked incredulously. "He's hiding—he wouldn't start anything so soon."

Mr. Reeder nodded.

"John Flack. Who else could have planned such a thing? The art of it! And, Mr. Simpson "—he leaned over and tapped the inspector on the breast—"there has not been a big robbery in London since Flack went to Broadmoor. You'll get the biggest of all in a week! The coup of coups! His mad brain is planning it now!"

"He's finished," said Simpson with a frown.

Mr. Reeder smiled wanly.

"We shall see. This little affair of to-night is a sighting shot—a mere nothing. But I am rather glad I am not—er—dining out in these days. On the other hand, our friend Georgio Ravini is a notorious diner-out—would you mind calling up Vine Street police station and finding out whether they have any casualties to report?"

Vine Street, which knew the movements of so many people, replied instantly that Mr. Georgio Ravini was out of town; it was believed he was in Paris.

"Dear me!" said Mr. Reeder in his feeble, aimless way. "How very wise of Georgio—and how much wiser it will be if he stays there!"

Inspector Simpson rose and shook himself. He was a stout, hearty man who had that habit.

"I'll get down to the Yard and report this." he said "It may not have been Flack after all. He's a gang leader and he'd be useless without his crowd, and they are scattered. Most of them are in the Argentine—"

"Ha, ha!" said Mr. Reeder, without any evidence of joy.

"What the devil are you laughing about?"

The other was instantly apologetic.

"It was what I would describe as a sceptical laugh. The Argentine! Do criminals really go to the Argentine except in those excellent works of fiction which one reads on trains? A tradition, Mr. Simpson, dating back to the ancient times when there was no extradition treaty between the two countries. Scattered, yes. I look forward to the day when I shall gather them all together under one roof. It will be a very pleasant morning for me, Mr. Simpson, when I can walk along the gallery, looking through the little peep-holes, and watch them sewing mail-bags—I know of no more sedative occupation than a little needlework! In the meantime, watch your banks—old John is seventy years of age and has no time to waste. History will be made in the City of London before many days are past! I wonder where I could find Mr. Ravini?"

George Ravini was not the type of man whose happiness depended upon the good opinion which others held of him. Otherwise, he might well have spent his life in abject misery. As for Mr. Reeder—he discussed that interesting police official over a glass of wine and a good cigar in his Half Moon Street flat. It was a showy, even a flashy, little menage, for Mr. Ravini's motto was everything of the best and as much of it as possible and, his drawing-room was rather like an over-ornamented French clock—all gilt and enamel where it was not silk and damask. To his subordinate, one Lew Steyne, Mr. Ravini revealed his mind.

"If that old So-and-so knew half he pretends to know, I'd be taking the first train to Bordighera," he said. "But Reeder's a bluff. He's clever up to a point, but you can say that about almost any bogey you ever met."

"You could show him a few points," said the sycophantic Lew, and Mr. Ravini smiled and stroked his trim moustache.

"I wouldn't be surprised if the old nut is crazy about that girl. May and December—can you beat it!"

"What's she like?" asked Lew. "I never got a proper look at her face."

Mr. Ravini kissed the tips of his fingers ecstatically and threw the caress to the painted ceiling.

"Anyway, he can't frighten me. Lew—you know what I am: if I want anything I go after it, and I keep going after it till I get it! I've never seen anybody like her. Quite the lady and everything, and what she can see in an old such-and-such like Reeder licks me!"

"Women are funny," mused Lew. "You wouldn't think that a typist would chuck a man like you—"

"She hasn't chucked me," said Mr. Ravini curtly. "I'm simply not acquainted with her, that's all. But I'm going to be. Where's this place?"

"Siltbury," said Lew.

He took a piece of paper from his waistcoat pocket, unfolded it and read the pencilled words.

"Larmes Keep, Siltbury—it's on the Southern. I trailed her when she left London with her boxes—old Reeder came down to see her off, and looked about as happy as a wet cat."

"A boarding-house," mused Ravini. "That's a queer sort of job."

"She's secretary," reported Lew. (He had conveyed this information at least four times, but Mr. Ravini was one of those curious people who like to treat old facts as new sensations.)

"It's a posh place, too," said Lew. "Not like the ordinary boarding-house—only swells go there. They charge twenty guineas a week for a room, and you're lucky if you get in." Ravini thought on this, fondling his chin. "This is a free country," he said. "What's to stop me staying at—what's the name of the place? Larmes Keep? I've never taken 'No' from a woman in my life. Half the time they don't mean it. Anyway, she's got to give me a room if I've the money to pay for it."

"Suppose she writes to Reeder?" suggested Lew.

"Let her write!" Ravini's tone was defiant, whatever might be the state of his mind. "What'll he have on me? It's no crime to pay your rent at a boarding-house, is it?"

"Try her with one of your Luck Rings," grinned Lew.

Ravini looked at them admiringly.

"I couldn't get 'em off," he said, "and I'd never dream of parting with my luck that way. She'll be easy as soon as she knows me—don't you worry."

By a curious coincidence, as he was turning out of Half Moon Street the next morning he met the one man in the world he did not wish to see. Fortunately, Lew had taken his suit-case on to the station, and there was nothing in Mr. Ravini's appearance to suggest that he was setting forth on an affair of gallantry.

Mr. Reeder looked at the man's diamonds glittering in the daylight. They seemed to exercise a peculiar fascination on the detective.

"The luck still holds, Georgio," he said, and Georgio smiled complacently. "And whither do you go on this beautiful September morning? To bank your nefarious gains, or to get a quick visa to your passport?"

"Strolling round," said Ravini airily. "Just taking a little constitutional." And then, with a spice of mischief: "What's happened to that busy you were putting on to tail me up? I haven't seen him."

Mr. Reeder looked past him to the distance.

"He has never been far from you, Georgio," he said gently. "He followed you from the Flotsam last night to that peculiar little party you attended in Maida Vale, and he followed you home at 2.15 a.m."

Georgio's jaw dropped.

"You don't mean he's—" He looked round. The only person visible was a benevolent-looking man who might have been a doctor, from his frock coat and top hat.

"That's not him?" frowned Ravini.

"He," corrected Mr. Reeder. "Your English is not yet perfect."

Ravini did not leave London immediately. It was two o'clock before he had shaken off the watcher, and five minutes later he was on the Southern express. The same old cabman who had brought Margaret Belman to Larmes Keep carried him up the long, winding hill road through the broad gates to the front of the house, and deposited him under the portico. An elderly porter, in a smart, well-fitting uniform, came out to greet the stranger.

"Mr.—?"

"Ravini," said that gentleman. "I haven't booked a room."

The porter shook his head.

"I'm afraid we have no accommodation," he said. "Mr. Daver makes it a rule not to take guests unless they've booked their rooms in advance. I will see the secretary."

Ravini followed him into the spacious hall and sat down on one of the beautiful chairs. This, he decided, was something outside the usual run of boarding-houses. It was luxurious even for an hotel. No other guests were visible. Presently he heard a step on the nagged floor and rose to meet the eyes of Margaret Belman. Though they were unfriendly, she betrayed no sign of recognition. He might have been the veriest stranger.

"The proprietor makes it a rule not to accept guests without previous correspondence," she said. "In those circumstances I am afraid we cannot offer you accommodation."

"I've already written to the proprietor," said Ravini, never at a loss for a glib lie. "Go along, young lady, be a sport and see what you can do for me."

Margaret hesitated. Her own inclination was to order his suit-case to be put in the waiting cab; but she was part of the organisation of the place, and she could not let her private prejudices interfere with her duties.

"Will you wait?" she said, and went in search of Mr. Daver.

That great criminologist was immersed in a large book and looked up over his horn-rimmed spectacles.

"Ravini? A foreign gentleman? Of course he is, A stranger within our gate, as you would say. It is very irregular, but in the circumstances—yes, I think so."

"He isn't the type of man you ought to have here, Mr. Daver," she said firmly. "A friend of mine who knows these people says he is a member of the criminal classes."

Mr. Daver's ludicrous eyebrows rose. "The criminal classes! What an extraordinary opportunity to study, as it were, at first hand! You agree? I knew you would! Let him stay. If he bores me, I will send him away."

Margaret went back, a little disappointed, feeling rather foolish if the truth be told. She found Ravini waiting, caressing his moustache, a little less assured than he had been when she had left him.

"Mr. Daver said you may stay. I will send the housekeeper to you," she said, and went in search of Mrs. Burton, and gave that doleful woman the necessary instructions.

She was angry with herself that she had not been more explicit in dealing with Mr. Daver. She might have told him that if Ravini stayed she would leave. She might even have explained the reason why she did not wish the Italian to remain in the house. She was in the fortunate position, however, that she had not to see the guests unless they expressed a wish to interview her, and Ravini was too wise to pursue his advantage.

That night, when she went to her room, she sat down and wrote a long letter to Mr. Reeder, but thought better of it and tore it up. She could not run to J. G. Reeder every time she was annoyed. He had a sufficiency of trouble, she decided, and here she was right. Even as she wrote, Mr. Reeder was examining with great interest the spring gun which had been devised for his destruction.

Chapter 6

 

To do Ravini justice, he made no attempt to approach the girl, though she had seen him at a distance. He had passed her on the lawn the second day after his arrival with no more than a nod and a smile, and, indeed, he seemed to have found another diversion, if not another objective, for he was scarcely away from Olga Crewe's side. Margaret saw them in the evening, leaning over the cliff wall, and George Ravini seemed remarkably pleased with himself. He was exhibiting his famous Luck Stones to Olga. Margaret saw her examine the rings and evidently make some remark upon them which sent Ravini into fits of laughter.

It was on the third day of his stay that he spoke to Margaret. They met in the big hall, and she would have passed on, but he stood in her way.

"I hope we're not going to be bad friends, Miss Belman," he said. "I'm not giving you any trouble, and I'm ready to apologise for the past. Could a gentleman be fairer than that?"

"I don't think you've anything to apologise for, Mr. Ravini," she said, a little relieved by his tone, and more inclined to be civil. "Now that you have so obviously found another interest in life, are you enjoying your stay?"

"It's perfectly marvellous," he said conventionally, for he was a man who loved superlatives. "And say, Miss Belman, who is this young lady staying here, Miss Olga Crewe?"

"She's a guest: I know nothing about her."

"What a peach!" he said enthusiastically, and Margaret was amused.

"And a lady, every inch of her," he went on. "I must say I'm putty in the hands of real ladies! There's something about 'em that's different from shop-girls and typists and people of that kind. Not that you're a typist," he went on hastily. "I regard you as a lady too. Every inch of one. I'm thinking about sending for my Rolls to take her for a drive round the country. You're not jealous?"

Anger and amusement struggled for expression, but Margaret's sense of humour won, and she laughed long and silently all the way to her office.

Soon after this Mr. Ravini disappeared. So also did Olga. Margaret saw them coming into the hall about eleven, and the girl looked paler than usual, and, sweeping past her without a word, ran up the stairs. Margaret surveyed the young man curiously. His face was flushed, his eyes of an unusual brightness.

"I'm going up to town to-morrow," he said. "Early train… you needn't 'phone for a cab: I can walk down the hill." He was almost incoherent.

"You're tired of Larmes Keep?"

"Eh? Tired? No, by God I'm not! This is the place for me!"

He smoothed back his dark hair and she saw his hand trembling so much that the Luck Stones flickered and flashed like fire. She waited until he had disappeared, and then she went upstairs and knocked at Olga's door. The girl's room was next to hers. "Who's that?" asked a voice sharply. "Miss Belman." The key turned, the door opened. Only one light was burning in the room, so that Olga's face was in shadow.

"Do you want anything?" she asked.

"Can I come in?" asked Margaret. "There's something I wish to say to you."

Olga hesitated. Then; "Come in," she said. "I've been snivelling. I hope you don't mind."

Her eyes were red, the stains of tears were still on her face.

"This damned place depresses me awfully," she excused herself as she dabbed her cheeks with a handkerchief. "What do you want to see me about?"

"Mr. Ravini. I suppose you know he is a—crook?"

Olga stared at her and her eyes went hard.

"I don't know that I am particularly interested in Mr. Ravini," she said slowly. "Why do you come to tell me this?"

Margaret was in a dilemma.

"I don't know… I thought you were getting rather friendly with him… it was very impertinent of me."

"I think it was," said Olga Crewe coldly, and the rebuff was such that Margaret's face went scarlet.

She was angry with herself when she went into her own room that night, and anger is a bad bedmate, and the most wakeful of all human emotions. She tossed from side to side in her bed, tried to forget there were such persons as Olga Crewe and George Ravini, tried every device she could think of to induce sleep, and was almost successful when…

She sat up in bed. Fingers were scrabbling on the panel of her door; not exactly scratching nor tapping. She switched on the light, and, getting out of bed, walked to the door and listened. Somebody was there. The handle turned in her hand.

"Who's there?" she asked.

"Let me in, let me in!… "

It was a frantic whisper, but she recognised the voice—Ravini!

"I can't let you in. Go away, please, or I'll telephone… "

She heard a sound, a curious muffled sound… sobbing… a man! And then the voice ceased. Her heart racing madly, she stood by the door, her ear to the panel, listening, but no other sound came. She spent the rest of the night sitting up in bed, a quilt about her shoulders, listening, listening…

Day broke greyly; the sun came up. She lay down and fell asleep. It was the maid bringing tea that woke her, and, getting out of bed, she opened the door. Something attracted her attention.

"A nice morning, miss," said the fresh-faced country girl brightly.

Margaret nodded. As soon as the girl was gone she opened the door again to examine more closely the thing she had seen. It was a triangular patch of stuff that had been torn and caught in one of the splinters of the old oaken door. She took it off carefully and laid it in the palm of her hand. A jagged triangle of pink silk. She put it on her dressing-table wonderingly. There must be an end to this. If Ravini was not leaving that morning, or Mr. Daver would not ask him to go, she would leave for London that night.

As she left her room she met the housemaid.

"That man in No. 7 has gone, miss," the woman reported, "but he's left his pyjamas behind."

"Gone already?"

"Must have gone last night, miss. His bed hasn't been slept in."

Margaret followed her along the passage to Ravini's room. His bag was gone, but on the pillow, neatly folded, was a suit of pink silk pyjamas, and, bending over, she saw that the breast was slightly torn. A little triangular patch of pink silk had been ripped out!

To do Ravini justice, he made no attempt to approach the girl, though she had seen him at a distance. He had passed her on the lawn the second day after his arrival with no more than a nod and a smile, and, indeed, he seemed to have found another diversion, if not another objective, for he was scarcely away from Olga Crewe's side. Margaret saw them in the evening, leaning over the cliff wall, and George Ravini seemed remarkably pleased with himself. He was exhibiting his famous Luck Stones to Olga. Margaret saw her examine the rings and evidently make some remark upon them which sent Ravini into fits of laughter.

It was on the third day of his stay that he spoke to Margaret. They met in the big hall, and she would have passed on, but he stood in her way.

"I hope we're not going to be bad friends, Miss Belman," he said. "I'm not giving you any trouble, and I'm ready to apologise for the past. Could a gentleman be fairer than that?"

"I don't think you've anything to apologise for, Mr. Ravini," she said, a little relieved by his tone, and more inclined to be civil. "Now that you have so obviously found another interest in life, are you enjoying your stay?"

"It's perfectly marvellous," he said conventionally, for he was a man who loved superlatives. "And say, Miss Belman, who is this young lady staying here, Miss Olga Crewe?"

"She's a guest: I know nothing about her."

"What a peach!" he said enthusiastically, and Margaret was amused.

"And a lady, every inch of her," he went on. "I must say I'm putty in the hands of real ladies! There's something about 'em that's different from shop-girls and typists and people of that kind. Not that you're a typist," he went on hastily. "I regard you as a lady too. Every inch of one. I'm thinking about sending for my Rolls to take her for a drive round the country. You're not jealous?"

Anger and amusement struggled for expression, but Margaret's sense of humour won, and she laughed long and silently all the way to her office.

Soon after this Mr. Ravini disappeared. So also did Olga. Margaret saw them coming into the hall about eleven, and the girl looked paler than usual, and, sweeping past her without a word, ran up the stairs. Margaret surveyed the young man curiously. His face was flushed, his eyes of an unusual brightness.

"I'm going up to town to-morrow," he said. "Early train… you needn't 'phone for a cab: I can walk down the hill." He was almost incoherent.

"You're tired of Larmes Keep?"

"Eh? Tired? No, by God I'm not! This is the place for me!"

He smoothed back his dark hair and she saw his hand trembling so much that the Luck Stones flickered and flashed like fire. She waited until he had disappeared, and then she went upstairs and knocked at Olga's door. The girl's room was next to hers. "Who's that?" asked a voice sharply. "Miss Belman." The key turned, the door opened. Only one light was burning in the room, so that Olga's face was in shadow.

"Do you want anything?" she asked.

"Can I come in?" asked Margaret. "There's something I wish to say to you."

Olga hesitated. Then; "Come in," she said. "I've been snivelling. I hope you don't mind."

Her eyes were red, the stains of tears were still on her face.

"This damned place depresses me awfully," she excused herself as she dabbed her cheeks with a handkerchief. "What do you want to see me about?"

"Mr. Ravini. I suppose you know he is a—crook?"

Olga stared at her and her eyes went hard.

"I don't know that I am particularly interested in Mr. Ravini," she said slowly. "Why do you come to tell me this?"

Margaret was in a dilemma.

"I don't know… I thought you were getting rather friendly with him… it was very impertinent of me."

"I think it was," said Olga Crewe coldly, and the rebuff was such that Margaret's face went scarlet.

She was angry with herself when she went into her own room that night, and anger is a bad bedmate, and the most wakeful of all human emotions. She tossed from side to side in her bed, tried to forget there were such persons as Olga Crewe and George Ravini, tried every device she could think of to induce sleep, and was almost successful when…

She sat up in bed. Fingers were scrabbling on the panel of her door; not exactly scratching nor tapping. She switched on the light, and, getting out of bed, walked to the door and listened. Somebody was there. The handle turned in her hand.

"Who's there?" she asked.

"Let me in, let me in!… "

It was a frantic whisper, but she recognised the voice—Ravini!

"I can't let you in. Go away, please, or I'll telephone… "

She heard a sound, a curious muffled sound… sobbing… a man! And then the voice ceased. Her heart racing madly, she stood by the door, her ear to the panel, listening, but no other sound came. She spent the rest of the night sitting up in bed, a quilt about her shoulders, listening, listening…

Day broke greyly; the sun came up. She lay down and fell asleep. It was the maid bringing tea that woke her, and, getting out of bed, she opened the door. Something attracted her attention.

"A nice morning, miss," said the fresh-faced country girl brightly.

Margaret nodded. As soon as the girl was gone she opened the door again to examine more closely the thing she had seen. It was a triangular patch of stuff that had been torn and caught in one of the splinters of the old oaken door. She took it off carefully and laid it in the palm of her hand. A jagged triangle of pink silk. She put it on her dressing-table wonderingly. There must be an end to this. If Ravini was not leaving that morning, or Mr. Daver would not ask him to go, she would leave for London that night.

As she left her room she met the housemaid.

"That man in No. 7 has gone, miss," the woman reported, "but he's left his pyjamas behind."

"Gone already?"

"Must have gone last night, miss. His bed hasn't been slept in."

Margaret followed her along the passage to Ravini's room. His bag was gone, but on the pillow, neatly folded, was a suit of pink silk pyjamas, and, bending over, she saw that the breast was slightly torn. A little triangular patch of pink silk had been ripped out!

Chapter 7

 

WHEN a nimble old man dropped from a high wall at midnight and, stopping only to wipe the blood from his hands—for he had come upon a guard patrolling the grounds in his flight—and walked briskly towards London, peering into every side lane for the small car that had been left for him, he brought a new complication into many lives and for three people at least marked the date of their passing in the Book of Fate.

Police headquarters were not slow to employ the press to advertise their wants. But the escape from Broadmoor of a homicidal maniac is something which is not to be rushed immediately into print. Not once, but many times had the help of the public been enlisted in a vain endeavour to bring old John Flack to justice. His description had been circulated, his haunts notified, without there being any successful issue to the broadcast.

There was a conference at Scotland Yard, which Mr. Reeder attended; and they were five very serious men who gathered round the superintendent's desk, and mainly the talk was of bullion and of "noses" by which inelegant term is meant the inevitable police informer.

Crazy John "fell" eventually through the treachery of an outside helper. Ravini, the most valuable of gang leaders, had been employed to "cover" a robbery at the Leadenhall Bank. Bullion was John Flack's speciality: it was not without its interest for Mr. Ravini.

The theft had been successful. One Sunday morning two cars drove out of the courtyard of the Leadenhall Bank. By the side of the driver of each car sat a man in the uniform of the Metropolitan Police—inside each car was another officer. A city policeman saw the cars depart, but accepted the presence of the uniformed men and did not challenge the drivers. It was not an unusual event: transfers of gold or stocks on Sunday morning had been witnessed before, but usually the City authorities were notified. He called Old Jewry station on the telephone to report the occurrence, but by this time John Flack was well away.

It was Ravini, cheated, as he thought, of his fair share of the plunder, who betrayed the old man—the gold was never recovered.

England had been ransacked to find John FIack's headquarters, but without success. There was not an hotel or boarding-house keeper who had not received his portrait—nor one who recognised him in any guise.

The exhaustive inquiries which followed his arrest did little to increase the knowledge of the police. FIack's lodgings were found—a furnished room in Bloomsbury which he had occupied at rare intervals for years. But here were discovered no documents which gave the slightest clue to the real headquarters of the gang. Probably they had none. They were chosen and discarded as opportunity arose or emergency dictated, though it was clear that the old man had something in the nature of a general staff to assist him.

"Anyway," said Big Bill Gordon, Chief of the Big Five, "he'll not start anything in the way of a bullion steal—his mind will be fully occupied with ways and means of getting out of the country."

It was Mr. Reeder's head which shook.

"The nature of criminals may change, but their vanities persist," he said, in his precise, grandiloquent way. "Mr. Flack does not pride himself upon his murders, but upon his robberies, and he will signify his return to freedom in the usual manner."

"His gang is scattered—" began Simpson. J. G. Reeder silenced him with a sad, sweet smile.

"There is plenty of evidence, Mr. Simpson, that the gang has coagulated again. It is—um—an ugly word, but I can think of no better. Mr. FIack's escape from the—er—public institution where he was confined shows evidence of good team-work. The rope, the knife with which he killed the unfortunate warder, the kit of tools, the almost certainty that there was a car waiting to take him away, are all symptomatic of gang work. And what has Mr. Flack—"

"I wish to God you wouldn't call him 'Mr. Flack,'" said Big Bill explosively.

J. G. Reeder blinked.

"I have an ineradicable respect for age," he said in a hushed voice, "but a greater respect for the dead. I am hoping to increase my respect for Mr. Flack in the course of the next month."

"If it's gang work," interrupted Simpson, "who are with him? The old crowd is either gaoled or out of the country. I know what you're thinking about, Mr. Reeder: you've got your mind on what happened last night. I've been thinking it over, and it's quite likely that the man-trap wasn't fixed by Flack at all, but by one of the other crowd. Do you know Donovan's out of Dartmoor? He has no reason for loving you."

Mr. Reeder raised his hand in protest.

"On the contrary, Joe Donovan, when I saw him in the early hours of this morning, was a very affable and penitent man, who deeply regretted the unkind things he said of me as he left the Old Bailey dock. He lives at Kilburn, and spent last evening at a local cinema with his wife and daughter—no, it wasn't Donovan. He is not a brainy man. Only John Flack, with his dramatic sense, could have staged that little comedy which was so nearly a tragedy."

"You were nearly killed, they tell me, Reeder?" said Big Bill.

Mr. Reeder shook his head.

"I was not thinking of that particular tragedy. It was in my mind before I went up the stairs to force the door into the kitchen. If I had done that, I think I should have shot Mr. Flack, and there would have been an end of all our speculations and troubles."

Mr. Simpson was examining some papers that were on the table before him.

"If Flack's going after bullion he's got very little chance. The only big movement is that of a hundred and twenty thousand sovereigns which goes to Tilbury to-morrow morning or the next day from the Bank of England, and it is impossible that Flack could organise a steal at such short notice."

Mr. Reeder was suddenly alert and interested.

"A hundred and twenty thousand sovereigns," he murmured, rubbing his chin irritably. "Ten tons. It goes by train?"

"By lorry, with ten armed men—one per ton," said Simpson humorously, "I don't think you need worry about that."

Mr. J. G. Reeder's lips were pursed as though he were whistling, but no sound issued. Presently he spoke.

"Flack was originally a chemist," he said slowly. "I don't suppose there is a better criminal chemist in England than Mr. Flack."

"Why do you say that?" asked Simpson with a frown.

Mr. Reeder shrugged his shoulders.

"I have a sixth sense," he said, almost apologetically, "and invariably I associate some peculiar quality with every man and woman who—um—passes under review. For example, Mr. Simpson, when I think of you, I have an instinctive, shadowy thought of a prize ring where I first had the pleasure of seeing you." (Simpson, who had been an amateur welter-weight, grinned appreciatively.) "And my mind never rests upon Mr. Flack except in the surroundings of a laboratory with test tubes and all the paraphernalia of experimental chemistry. As for the little affair last night, I was not unprepared for it, but I suspected a trap—literally a—um—trap. Some evilly-disposed person once tried the same trick with me; cut away the landing so that I should fall upon very unpleasant sharp spikes. I looked for sawdust the moment I went into the house, and when that was not present I guessed the gun."

"But how did you know there was anything?" asked Big Bill curiously.

Mr. Reeder smiled.

"I have a criminal mind," he said.

He went back to his flat in Bennett Street, his mind equally divided between Margaret Belman, safe in Sussex, and the ability of one normal trolley to carry a hundred and twenty thousand sovereigns. Such little details interested Mr. Reeder. Almost the first thing he did when he reached his flat was to call up a haulage contractor to discover whether such trucks were in use. For somehow he knew that if the Flack gang were after this shipment to Australia, it was necessary that the gold should be carried in one vehicle. And why he should think this, not even Mr. Reeder knew. But he had, as he said, a criminal mind.

That afternoon he addressed himself to a novel and not unpleasing task. It was a letter—the first letter he had written to Margaret Belman—and in its way it was a curiosity.

My dear Miss Margaret (it began), I trust you will not be annoyed that I should write to you: but certain incidents which disfigured perhaps our parting, and which may cause you (I say this, knowing your kind heart) a little unhappiness, induce this letter—

Mr. Reeder paused here to discover a method by which he could convey his regret at not seeing her, without offering an embarrassing revelation of his more secret thoughts. At five o'clock, when his servant brought in his tea, he was still sitting before the unfinished letter. Mr. Reeder took up the cup, carried it to his writing-table, and stared at it as though for inspiration.

And then he saw, on the surface of the steaming cup, a thread-like formation of froth which had a curious metallic quality. He dipped his forefinger delicately in the froth and put his finger to his tongue.

"Hum!" said Mr. Reeder, and rang the bell.

His man came instantly.

"Is there anything you want, sir?" He bent his head respectfully, and for a long time Mr. Reeder did not answer.

"The milk, of course!" he said.

"The milk, sir?" said the puzzled servant. "The milk's fresh, sir: it came this afternoon."

"You did not take it from the milkman, naturally. It was in a bottle outside the door."

The man nodded.

"Yes, sir."

"Good!" said Mr. Reeder, almost cheerfully. "In future will you arrange to receive the milk from the milkman's own hands? You have not drunk any yourself, I see?"

"No, sir. I have had my tea, but I don't take milk with it, sir," said the servant, and Mr. Reeder favoured him with one of his rare smiles.

"That, Peters," he said, "is why you are alive and well. Bring the rest of the milk to me, and a new cup of tea. I also will dispense with the lacteal fluid."

"Don't you like milk, sir?" said the bewildered man.

"I like milk," replied Mr. Reeder gently, "but I prefer it without strychnine. I think, Peters, we're going to have a very interesting week. Have you any dependants?"

"I have an old mother, sir," said the mystified man.

"Are you insured?" asked Mr. Reeder, and Peters nodded dumbly.

"You have the advantage of me," said J. G. Reeder. "Yes, I think we are going to have an interesting week." And his prediction was fully justified.

Chapter 8

 

LONDON heard the news of John FIack's escape and grew fearful or indignant according to its several temperaments. A homicidal planner of great and spectacular thefts was in its midst. It was not very pleasant hearing for law-abiding citizens. And the news was more than a week old: why had Scotland Yard not taken the public into its confidence? Why suppress this news of such vital interest? Who was responsible for the suppression of this important information? Headlines asked these questions in the more sensational sheets. The news of the Bennett Street outrage was public property: to his enormous embarrassment, Mr. Reeder found himself a Matter of Public Interest.

Mr. Reeder used to sit alone in his tiny bureau at the Public Prosecutor's Office and for hours on end do little more than twiddle his thumbs and gaze disconsolately at the virgin white of his blotting-pad.

In what private day-dreams he indulged, whether they concerned fabulous fortunes and their disposition, or whether they centred about a very pretty pink-and-white young lady, or whether indeed he thought at all and his mind was not a complete blank, those who interrupted his reveries and had the satisfaction of seeing him start guiltily had no means of knowing.

At this particular moment his mind was, in truth, completely occupied by his newest as well as his oldest enemy.

There were three members of the Flack gang originally—John, George, and Augustus—and they began operations in the days when it was considered scientific and a little wonderful to burn out the lock of a safe. Augustus Flack was killed by the night watchman of Carr's Bank in Lombard Street during an attempt to rob the gold vault, George Flack, the youngest of the three, was sent to penal servitude for ten years as the result of a robbery in Bond Street, and died there; and only John, the mad master-mind of the family, escaped detection and arrest.

It was he who brought into the organisation one O. Sweizer, the Yankee bank-smasher; he who recruited Adolphe Victoire; and those brought others to the good work. For this was Crazy Jack's peculiar asset—that he could attract to himself, almost at a minute's notice, the best brains of the underworld. Though the rest of the Flacks were either dead or gaoled, the organisation was stronger than ever, and strongest because lurking somewhere in the background was this kinky brain.

Thus matters stood when Mr. J. G. Reeder came into the case—being brought into the matter not so much because the London police had failed, but because the Public Prosecutor recognised that the breaking up of the Flacks was going to be a lengthy business, occupying one man's complete attention.

Cutting the tentacles of the organisation was an easy matter, comparatively.

Mr. Reeder took O. Sweizer, that stocky Swiss-American, when he and a man unknown were engaged in removing a safe from the Bedford Street post-office one Sunday morning. Sweizer was ready for fight, but Mr. Reeder grabbed him just a little too quickly.

"Let up!" gasped Sweizer in Italian. "You're choking me, Reeder."

Mr. Reeder turned him on to his face and handcuffed him behind, then he lifted him by the scruff of his neck and went to the assistance of his admirable colleagues who were taking the other two men.

Victoire was arrested one night at the Charlton, when he was dining with Denver May. He gave no trouble, because the police took him on a purely fictitious charge and one which he knew he could easily disprove.

"My dear Mr. Reeder," said he in his elegant, languid way, "you are making quite an absurd mistake, but I will humour you. I can prove that when the pearls were taken from Hertford Street I was in Nice."

This was on the way to the station.

They put him in the dock and searched him, discovering certain lethal weapons handily disposed about his person, but he was only amused. He was less amused when he was charged with smashing the Bank of Lens, the attempted murder of a night watchman, and one or two other little matters which need not be particularised.

They got him into the cells, and as he was carried, struggling and raving like a lunatic, Mr. Reeder offered him a piece of advice which he rejected with considerable violence.

"Say you were in Nice at the time," he said gently.

Then one day the police pulled in a man in Somers Town, on the very prosaic charge of beating his wife in public. When they searched him they found a torn scrap of a letter, which was sent at once to Mr. Reeder. It ran:

Any night about eleven in Whitehall Avenue. Reeder is a man of medium height, elderly-looking, sandy-greyish hair and side-whiskers rather thick, always carries an umbrella. Recommendation to wear rubber boots and take a length of iron to him. You can easily find out who he is and what he looks like. Take your time… fifty on acc… der when the job is finished.

This was the first hint Mr. Reeder had that he was especially unpopular with the mysterious John Flack.

The day Crazy Jack was sent down to Broadmoor had been a day of mild satisfaction for Mr. Reeder. He was not exactly happy or even relieved about it. He had the comfort of an accountant who had signed a satisfactory balance-sheet, or the builder who was surveying his finished work. There were other balance-sheets to be signed, other buildings to be erected—they differed only in their shapes and quantities.

One thing was certain, that on what other project Flack's mind was fixed, he was devoting a considerable amount of thought to J. G. Reeder—whether in reprisal for events that had passed or as a precautionary measure to check his activities in the future, the detective could only guess: but he was a good guesser.

The telephone bell, set in a remote corner of the room, rang sharply. Mr. Reeder took up the instrument with a pained expression. The operator of the office exchange told him that there was a call from Horsham. He pulled a writing-pad towards him and waited. And then a voice spoke, and hardly was the first word uttered when he knew his man, for J. G. Reeder never forgot voices.

"That you, Reeder?… Know who I am?… "

The same thin, tense voice that had babbled threats from the dock of the Old Bailey, the same little chuckling laugh that punctured every second.

Mr. Reeder touched a bell and began to write rapidly on his pad.

"Know who I am—I'll bet you do! Thought you'd got rid of me, didn't you, but you haven't!… Listen, Reeder, you can tell the Yard I'm busy—I'm going to give them the shock of their lives. Mad, am I? I'll show you whether I'm mad or not… And I'll get you, Reeder… "

A messenger came in. Mr. Reeder tore off the slip and handed it to him with an urgent gesture. The man read and bolted from the room.

"Is that Mr. Flack?" asked Reeder softly.

"Is it Mr. Flack, you old hypocrite!… Have you got the parcel? I wondered if you had. What do you think of it?"

"The parcel?" said Reeder, gentlier than ever, and before the man could reply: "You will get into serious trouble for trying to hoax the Public Prosecutor's Office, my friend," said Mr. Reeder reproachfully. "You are not Crazy John Flack… I know his voice. Mr. Flack spoke with a curious Cockney accent which is not easy to imitate, and Mr. Flack at this moment is in the hands of the police."

He counted on the effect of this provocative speech, and he had made no mistake.

"You lie!" screamed the voice. "You know I'm Flack… Crazy Jack, eh?… Crazy old John Flack… Mad, am I? You'll learn!… you put me in that hell upon earth, and I'm going to serve you worse than I treated that damned dago… "

The voice ceased abruptly. There was a click as the receiver was put down. Reeder listened expectantly, but no other call came through. Then he rang the bell again and the messenger returned.

"Yes, sir, I got through straight away to the Horsham police station. The inspector is sending three men in a car to the post-office."

Mr. Reeder gazed at the ceiling. "Then I fear he has sent too late," he said. "The venerable bandit will have gone."

A quarter of an hour later came confirmation of his prediction. The police had arrived at the post office, but the bird had flown. The clerk did not remember anybody old or wild-looking booking a call; he thought that the message had not come from the post office itself, which was also the telephone exchange, but from an outlying call-box.

Mr. Reeder went in to report to the Public Prosecutor, but neither he nor his assistant was in the office. He rang up Scotland Yard and passed on his information to Simpson.

"I respectfully suggest that you should get into touch with the French police and locate Ravini. He may not be in Paris at all."

"Where do you think he is?" asked Simpson.

"That," replied Mr. Reeder in a hushed voice, "is a question which has never been definitely settled in my mind. I should not like to say that he was in heaven, because I cannot imagine Georgio Ravini with his Luck Stones—"

"Do you mean that he's dead?" asked Simpson quickly.

"It is very likely; in fact, it is extremely likely."

There was a long silence at the other end of the telephone.

"Have you had the parcel?"

"That I am awaiting with the greatest interest," said Mr. Reeder, and went back to his office to twiddle his thumbs and stare at his white blotting-pad.

The parcel came at three o'clock that afternoon, when Mr. Reeder had returned from his frugal lunch, which he invariably took at a large and popular teashop in Whitehall. It was a very small parcel, about three inches square; it was registered, and had been posted in London. He weighed it carefully, shook it and listened, but the lightness of the package precluded any possibility of there being concealed behind the paper wrapping anything that bore a resemblance to an infernal machine. He cut the paper tape that fastened it, took off the paper, and there was revealed a small cardboard box such as jewellers employ. Removing the lid, he found a small pad of cotton-wool, and in the midst of this three gold rings, each with three brilliant diamonds. He put them on his blotting-pad, and gazed at them for a long time.

They were George Ravini's Luck Stones, and for ten minutes Mr. Reeder sat in a profound reverie, for he knew that George Ravini was dead, and it did not need the card which accompanied the rings to know who was responsible for the drastic and gruesome ending to Mr. Ravini's life. The sprawling "J. F." on the little card was in Mr. Flack's writing, and the three words "Your turn next" were instructive, even if they were not, as they were intended to be, terrifying.

Half an hour later Mr. Reeder met Inspector Simpson by appointment at Scotland Yard. Simpson examined the rings curiously, and pointed out a small, dark-brown speck at the edge of one of the Luck Stones.

"I don't doubt that Ravini is dead," he said. "The first thing to discover is where he went when he said he was going to Paris."

This task presented fewer difficulties than Simpson had imagined. He remembered Lew Steyne and his association with the Italian, and a telephone call put through to the City police located Lew in five minutes.

"Bring him along in a taxi," said Simpson, and, as he hung up the receiver: "The question is, what is Crazy Jack's coup? Murder on a large scale, or just picturesque robbery?"

"I think the latter," said Mr. Reeder thoughtfully. "Murder, with Mr. Flack, is a mere incidental to the—er—more important business of money-making."

He pinched his lip thoughtfully.

"Forgive me if I seem to repeat myself, but I would again remind you that Mr. Flack's speciality is bullion, if I remember aright," he said. "Didn't he smash the strong room of the Megantic… bullion, hum!" He scratched his chin and looked up over his glasses at Simpson.

The inspector shook his head.

"I only wish Crazy Jack was crazy enough to try to get out of the country by steamer—he won't. And the Leadenhall Bank stunt couldn't be repeated to-day. No, there's no chance of a bullion steal."

Mr. Reeder looked unconvinced.

"Would you ring up the Bank of England and find out if the money has gone to Australia?" he pleaded.

Simpson pulled the instrument towards him, gave a number and, after five minutes' groping through various departments, reached an exclusive personage. Mr. Reeder sat, with his hands clasped about the handle of his umbrella, a pained expression on his face, his eyes closed, and seemingly oblivious of the conversation. Presently Simpson hung up the receiver.

"The consignment should have gone this morning, but the sailing of the Olanic has been delayed by a stevedore strike—it goes to-morrow morning," he reported. "The gold is taken on a lorry to Tilbury with a guard. At Tilbury it is put into the Olanic's strong-room, which is the newest and safest of its kind. I don't suppose that John will begin operations there."

"Why not?" J. G. Reeder's voice was almost bland; his face was screwed into its nearest approach to a smile. "On the contrary, as I have said before, that is the very consignment I should expect Mr. Flack to go after."

"I pray that you're a true prophet," said Simpson grimly. "I could wish for nothing better."

They were still talking of Flack and his passion for ready gold when Mr. Lew Steyne arrived in the charge of a local detective. No crook, however hardened, can step into the gloomy approaches of Scotland Yard without experiencing some uneasiness, and Lew's attempt to display his indifference was rather pathetic.

"What's the idea, Mr. Simpson?" he asked, in a grieved tone. "I've done nothing."

He scowled at Reeder, who was known to him, and whom he regarded, very rightly, as being responsible for his appearance at this best-hated spot.

Simpson put a question, and Mr. Lew Steyne shrugged his shoulders.

"I ask you, Mr. Simpson, am I Ravini's keeper? I know nothing about the Italian crowd, and Ravini's scarcely an acquaintance."

Mr. Reeder shook his head.

"You spent two hours with him last Thursday evening," he said, and Lew was a little taken aback.

"I had a little bit of business with him, I admit," he said. "Over a house I'm trying to rent—"

His shifty eyes had become suddenly steadfast; he was looking open-mouthed at the three rings that lay on the table. Reeder saw him frown, and then: "What are those?" asked Lew huskily. "They're not Georgio's Luck Stones?"

Simpson nodded and pushed the little square of white paper on which they lay towards the visitor.

"Do you know them?" he asked,

Lew picked up one of the rings and turned it round in his hand.

"What's the idea?" he asked suspiciously. "Ravini told me himself he could never get these off."

And then, as the significance of their presence dawned upon him, he gasped.

"What's happened to him?" he asked quickly. "Is he—"

"I fear," said Mr. Reeder soberly, "that Georgio Ravini is no longer with us."

"Dead?" Lew almost shrieked the word. His yellow face went a chalky white. "Where… who did it?… "

"That is exactly what we want to know," said Simpson. "Now, Lew, you've got to spill it. Where is Ravini? He said he was going to Paris, I know, but actually where did he go?"

The thief's eyes strayed to Mr. Reeder.

"He was after that 'bird,' that's all I know," he said sullenly.

"Which bird?" asked Simpson, but Mr. Reeder had no heed to have its identity explained.

"He was after—Miss Belman?"

Lew nodded. "Yes, a girl he knew… she went down into the country to take a job as hotel manager or something. I saw her go, as a matter of fact. Ravini wanted to get better acquainted, so he went down to stay at the hotel."

Even as he spoke, Mr. Reeder had reached for the telephone, and had given the peculiar code word which is equivalent to a command for a clear line.

A high-pitched voice answered him.

"I am Mr. Daver, the proprietor… Miss Belman? I'm afraid she is out just now. She will be back in a few minutes. Who is it speaking?"

Mr. Reeder replied diplomatically. He was anxious to get in touch with George Ravini and for two minutes he allowed the voluble Mr. Daver to air a grievance.

"Yes, he went in the early morning, without paying his bill… "

"I will come down and pay it," said Mr Reeder.