The Fellowship of the Frog Page 12

  Again it was in the shadow of a street lamp that the sentinel stood— a tall, thickset man, more conscientious in the discharge of his duties than his friend, for Dick saw something glittering in his mouth, and knew that it was a whistle.

  “Give me the world for a wishing well,” wailed Elk, staggering slightly, “Say that my dre-em will come true …”

  And as he sang he made appropriate gestures. His outflung hand caught the whistle and knocked it from the man’s mouth, and in a second the two sprang at him and flung him face downward on the pavement. Elk pulled his prisoner’s cap over his mouth; something black and shiny flashed before the sentry’s eyes, and a cold, circular instrument was thrust against the back of his ear.

  “If you make a sound, you’re a dead Frog,” said Elk; and that portion of his party which had made the circuit coming up at that moment, he handed his prisoner over and replaced his fountain-pen in his pocket.

  “Everything now depends upon whether the gentleman who is patrolling the passage between the gardens has witnessed this disgusting fracas,” said Elk, dusting himself. “If he was standing at the entrance to the passage he has seen it, and there’s going to be trouble.”

  Apparently the patrol was in the alleyway itself and had heard no sound. Creeping to the entrance, Elk listened and presently heard the soft pad of footsteps. He signalled to Dick to remain where he was, and slipped into the passage, walking softly, but not so softly that the man on guard at the back gate of Mr. Maitland’s house did not hear him.

  “Who’s that?” he demanded in a gruff voice.

  “It’s me,” whispered Elk. “Don’t make so much noise.”

  “You’re not supposed to be here,” said the other in a tone of authority. “I told you to stay under the lamp-post—”

  Elk’s eyes had grown accustomed to the darkness, and now he saw his man.

  “There are two queer-looking people in the street: I wanted you to see them,” he whispered.

  All turned now upon the discipline which the Frogs maintained.

  “Who are they?” asked the unknown in a low voice.

  “A man and a woman,” whispered Elk.

  “I don’t suppose they’re anybody important,” grumbled the other.

  In his youth Elk had played football; and, measuring the distance as best he could, he dropped suddenly and tackled low. The man struck the earth with a jerk which knocked all the breath out of his body and made him incapable of any other sound than the involuntary gasp which followed his knock-out. In a second Elk was on him, his bony knee on the man’s throat.

  “Pray, Frog,” he whispered in the man’s ear, “but don’t shout!”

  The stricken man was incapable of shouting, and was still breathless when willing hands threw him into the patrol wagon.

  “We’ll have to go the back way, boys,” said Elk in a whisper.

  This time his task was facilitated by the fact that the garden gate was not locked. The door into the scullery was, however, but there was a window, the catch of which Elk forced noiselessly. He had pulled off his boots and was in his stockinged feet, and he sidled along the darkened passage. Apparently none of the dilapidated furniture had been removed from the house, for he felt the small table that had stood in the hall on his last visit. Gently turning the handle of Maitland’s room, he pushed.

  The door was open, the room in darkness and empty. Elk came back to the scullery.

  “There’s nobody here on the ground floor,” he said. “We’ll try upstairs.”

  He was half-way up when he heard the murmur of voices and stopped. Raising his eyes to the level of the floor, he saw a crack of light under the doorway of the front room—the apartment which had been occupied by Maitland’s housekeeper. He listened, but could distinguish no consecutive words. Then, with a bound, he took the remaining stairs in three strides, flew along the landing, and flung himself upon the door. It was locked. At the sound of his footsteps the light inside went out. Twice he threw himself with all his weight at the frail door, and at the third attempt it crashed in.

  “Hands up, everybody!” he shouted.

  The room was in darkness, and there was a complete silence. Crouching down in the doorway, he flung the gleam of his electric torch into the room. It was empty!

  His officers came crowding in at his heels, the lamp on the table was relit—the glass chimney was hot—and a search was made of the room. It was too small to require a great deal of investigation. There was a bed, under which it was possible to hide, but they drew blank in this respect. At one end of the room near the bed was a wardrobe, which was filled with old dresses suspended from hangers.

  “Throw out those clothes,” ordered Elk. “There must be a door there into the next house.”

  A glance at the window showed him that it was impossible for the inmates of the room to have escaped that way. Presently the clothes were heaped on the floor, and the detectives were attacking the wooden back of the wardrobe, which did, in fact, prove to be a door leading into the next house. Whilst they were so engaged, Dick made a scrutiny of the table, which was littered with papers. He saw something and called Elk.

  “What is this, Elk?”

  The detective took the four closely-typed sheets of paper from his hand.

  “Mills’ confession,” he said in amazement. “There are only two copies, one of which I have, and the other is in the possession of your department, Captain Gordon.”

  At this moment the wardrobe backing was smashed in, and the detectives were pouring through to the next house.

  And then it was that they made the interesting discovery that, to all intents and purposes, communication was continuous between a block of ten houses that ran to the end of the street. And they were not untenanted. Three typical Frogs occupied the first room into which they burst. They found others on the lower floor; and it soon became clear that the whole of the houses comprising the end block had been turned into a sleeping place for the recruits of Frogdom. Since any one of these might have been No. 7, they were placed under arrest.

  All the communicating doors were now opened. Except in the case of Maitland’s house, no attempt had been made to camouflage the entrances, which in the other houses consisted of oblong apertures, roughly cut through the brick party walls.

  “We may have got him, but I doubt it,” said Elk, coming back, breathless and grimy, to where Dick was examining the remainder of the documents which he had found. “I haven’t seen any man who looks like owning brains.”

  “Nobody has escaped from the block?”

  Elk shook his head.

  “My men are in the passage and the street. In addition, the uniformed police are here. Didn’t you hear the whistle?” Elk’s assistant reported at that moment.

  “A man has been found in one of the back yards, sir,” he said. “I’ve taken the liberty of relieving the constable of his prisoner. Would you like to see him?”

  “Bring him up,” said Elk, and a few minutes later a handcuffed man was pushed into the room.

  He was above medium height; his hair was fair and long, his yellow beard was trimmed to a point.

  For a moment Dick looked at him wonderingly, and then:

  “Carlo, I think?” he said.

  “Hagn, I’m sure!” said Elk. “Get those whiskers off, you Frog, and we’ll talk numbers, beginning with seven!”

  Hagn! Even now Dick could not believe his eyes. The wig was so perfectly made, the beard so cunningly fixed, that he could not believe it was the manager of Heron’s Club. But when he heard the voice, he knew that Elk was right.

  “Number Seven, eh?” drawled Hagn. “I guess Number Seven will get through your cordon without being challenged, Mr. Elk. He’s friendly with the police. What do you want me for?”

  “I want you for the part you played in the murder of Chief Inspector Genter on the night of the
fourteenth of May,” said Elk.

  Hagn’s lips curled.

  “Why don’t you take Broad?—he was there. Perhaps he’ll come as witness for me.”

  “When I see him—” began Elk.

  “Look out of the window,” interrupted Hagn. “He’s there!”

  Dick walked to the window and, throwing up the sash, leant out. A crowd of locals in shawls and overcoats were watching the transference of the prisoners. Dick caught the sheen of a silk hat and the unmistakable voice of Broad hailed him.

  “Good morning, Captain Gordon—Frog stock kind of slumped, hasn’t it? By the way, did you see the baby?”

  XIV.

  “ALL BULLS HEAR”

  Elk went out on the street to see the American. Mr. Broad was in faultless evening dress, and the gleaming head-lamps of his car illuminated the mean street.

  “You’ve certainly a nose for trouble,” said Elk with respect; “and whilst you’re telling me how you came to know about this raid, which hadn’t been decided on until half-an-hour ago, I’ll do some quiet wondering.”

  “I didn’t know there was a raid,” confessed Joshua Broad, “but when I saw twenty Central Office men dash out of Heron’s Club and drive furiously away, I am entitled to guess that their haste doesn’t indicate their anxiety to get to bed before the clock strikes two. I usually call at Heron’s Club in the early hours. In many ways its members are less desirable acquaintances than the general run of Frogs, but they amuse me. And they are mildly instructive. That is my explanation—I saw you leave in a hurry and I followed you. And I repeat my question. Did you see the dear little baby who is learning to spell R-A-T, Rat?”

  “No,” said Elk shortly. He had a feeling that the suave and self- possessed American was laughing at him. “Come in and see the chief.”

  Broad followed the inspector to the bedroom, where Dick was assembling the papers which in his hurried departure No. 7 had left behind. The capture was the most important that had been made since the campaign against the Frogs was seriously undertaken.

  In addition to the copy of the secret report on Mills, there was a bundle of notes, many of them cryptic and unintelligible to the reader. Some, however, were in plain English. They were typewritten, and obviously they corresponded to the General Orders of an army. They were, in fact, the Frog’s own instructions, issued under the name of his chief of staff, for each bore the signature “Seven.”

  One ran:

  “Raymond Bennett must go faster. L. to tell him that he is a Frog. Whatever is done with him must be carried out with somebody unknown as Frog.”

  Another slip:

  “Gordon has an engagement to dine American Embassy Thursday. Settle. Elk has fixed new alarm under fourth tread of stairs. Elk goes to Wandsworth 4.15 to-morrow for interview with Mills.”

  There were other notes dealing with people of whom Dick had never heard. He was reading again the reference to himself, and smiling over the laconic instruction “settle,” when the American came in.

  “Sit down, Mr. Broad—by the sad look on Elk’s face I guess you have explained your presence satisfactorily?” Broad nodded smilingly.

  “And Mr. Elk takes quite a lot of convincing,” he said. His eyes fell upon the papers on the table. “Would it be indiscreet to ask if that is Frog stuff?” he asked.

  “Very,” said Dick, “In fact, any reference to the Frogs would be the height of indiscretion, unless you’re prepared to add to the sum of our knowledge.”

  “I can tell you, without committing myself, that Frog Seven has made a getaway,” said the American calmly.

  “How do you know?”

  “I heard the Frogs jubilating as they passed down the street in custody,” said Broad. “Frog Seven’s disguise was perfect—he wore the uniform of a policeman.”

  Elk swore softly but savagely.

  “That was it!” he said. “He was the ‘policeman’ who was spiriting Hagn away under the pretence of arresting him! And if one of my men had not taken his prisoner from him they would both have escaped. Wait!”

  He went in search of the detective who had brought in Hagn.

  “I don’t know the constable,” said that officer. “This is a strange division to me. He was a tallish man with a heavy black moustache. If it was a disguise, it was perfect, sir.”

  Elk returned to report and question. But again Mr. Broad’s explanation was a simple one.

  “I tell you that the Frogs were openly enjoying the joke. I heard one say that the ‘rozzer’ got away—and another refers to the escaped man as a ‘Hattie’—both, I believe, are cant terms for policemen?”

  Elk nodded.

  “What is your interest in the Frogs, Broad?” he asked bluntly. “Forget for the minute that you’re a parlour criminologist and imagine that you’re writin’ the true story of your life.”

  Broad considered for a while, examining the cigar he had been smoking.

  “The Frogs mean nothing to me—the Frog everything.” The American puffed a ring of smoke into the air and watched it dissolve.

  “I’m mighty curious to know what game he is playing with Ray Bennett,” he said. “That is certainly the most intriguing feature of Frog strategy.”

  He rose and took up his hat.

  “I envy you your search of this fine old mansion,” he said, and, with a twinkle in his eye: “Don’t forget the kindergarten, Mr. Elk.”

  When he had gone, Elk made a close scrutiny of the house. He found two children’s books, both well-thumbed, and an elementary copybook, in which a childish hand had followed, shakily, the excellent copperplate examples. The abacus was gone, however. In the cupboard where he had seen the unopened circulars, he made a discovery. It was a complete outfit, as far as he could judge, for a boy of six or seven. Every article was new—not one had been worn. Elk carried his find to where Dick was still puzzling over some of the more obscure notes which “No. 7” had left in his flight.

  “What do you make of these?” he asked.

  The Prosecutor turned over the articles one by one, then leant back in his chair and stared into vacancy.

  “All new,” he said absently, and then a slow smile dawned on his face.

  Elk, who saw nothing funny in the little bundle, wondered what was amusing him.

  “I think these clothes supply a very valuable clue; does this?” He passed a paper across the table, and Elk read:

  “All bulls hear on Wednesday 3.1.A. L.V.M.B. Important.”

  “There are twenty-five copies of that simple but moving message,” said Dick; “and as there are no envelopes for any of the instructions, I can only suppose that they are despatched by Hagn either from the club or his home. This is how far I have got in figuring the organization of the Frogs. Frog Number One works through ‘Seven,’ who may or may not be aware of his chief’s identity. Hagn—whose number is thirteen, by the way, and mighty unlucky it will be for him—is the executive chief of Number Seven’s bureau, and actually communicates with the section chiefs. He may or may not know ‘Seven’—probably he does. Seven takes orders from the Frog, but may act without consultation if emergencies arise. There is here,” he tapped the paper, “an apology for employing Mills, which bears this out.”

  “No handwriting?”

  “None—nor finger-prints.”

  Elk took up one of the slips on which the messages were written, and held it to the light.

  “Watermark Three Lion Bond,” he read. “Typewriter new, written by somebody who was taught and has a weak little finger of the left hand—the ‘q’ and ‘a’ are faint. That shows he’s a touch typist—uses the same finger every time. Self-taught typists seldom use their little fingers. Especially the little finger of the left hand. I once caught a bank thief through knowing this.” He read the message again.

  “‘All bulls hear on Wednesday … ‘ Bulls are the big
men, the bull frogs, eh? Where do they hear? 3.1.A.? That certainly leaves me guessing, Captain. Why, what do you think?”

  Dick was regarding him oddly.

  “It doesn’t get me guessing,” he said slowly. “At 3.1 a.m. on Wednesday morning, I shall be listening in for the code signal L.V.M.B.—we are going to hear that great Frog talk!”

  “Will he talk about the durned treaty?” growled Elk.

  XV.

  THE MORNING AFTER

  Ray Bennett woke with a groan. His temples were splitting, his tongue was parched and dry. When he tried to lift his aching head from the pillow he groaned again, but with an effort of will succeeded in dragging himself from the bed and staggering to the window. He pushed open a leaded casement and looked out upon the green of Hyde Park, and all the time his temples throbbed painfully.

  Pouring a glass of water from a carafe, he drank greedily, and, sitting down on the edge of the bed, his head between his hands, he tried to think. Only dimly did he recall the events of the night before, but he was conscious that something dreadful had happened. Slowly his mind started to sort out his experiences, and with a sinking heart he remembered he had struck his father! He shuddered at the recollection, and then began a frantic mental search for justification. The vanity of youth does not readily reject excuses for its own excesses, and Ray was no exception. By the time he had had his bath and was in the first stages of dressing, he had come to the conclusion that he had been very badly treated. It was unpardonable in him to strike his father—he must write to him expressing his sorrow and urging his condition as a reason for the act. It would not be a crawling letter (he told himself) but something dignified and a little distant. After all, these quarrels occurred in every family. Parents were temporarily estranged from their children, and were eventually reconciled. Some day he would go to his father a rich man …

  He pursed his lips uneasily. A rich man? He was well off now. He had an expensive flat. Every week crisp new banknotes came by registered post. He had the loan of a car—how long would this state of affairs continue?