The Fourth Plague Read online

  Tillizini smiled. A feeling of affection had grown up between these two men, so differently constituted, so temperamentally apart. When Crocks had been detailed to assist Tillizini in his work, there were many sceptical people who smiled behind their hands, for anybody more unlike the detective of fiction than the inspector could not easily be imagined. Yet he was a shrewd, clever man, subtle to a point of brilliancy. A rapid and effective organizer, with a knowledge of the criminal underworld which few men possess.

  Tillizini tore open the telegrams; he read them twice, then he crumpled them into a ball and thrust them into his coat pocket. The letters, after glancing at the address and the postmark, he placed unopened in the inside pocket of his frock coat.

  “I didn’t show you the telegrams,” he said to the other, “because they were in code.”

  In a few words he communicated the gist of their contents. Tillizini’s code-book was in his head.

  “I am going to see my decoy now.”

  “Is he still alive?” asked the inspector with simulated surprise.

  “He was, a few minutes ago,” said Tillizini. For once he did not treat the subject facetiously, and the inspector knew that the question he had put in good-humour had a serious application.

  “I secured him a position,” said Tillizini suddenly; “he is an outside porter at Victoria, It will afford him an excellent opportunity of becoming acquainted with contrary humanity.”

  “And at the same time he will be able to give you a little information,” said Crocks. “I think it is an excellent scheme. He doesn’t look clever, and I don’t think he is particularly clever, but he has got the power which so few police officers possess, unfortunately. The moment a man begins to look important his value decreases.”

  Tillizini laughed.

  “Oh, unimportant man!” he said cryptically.

  A few minutes later the two parted. The detective went back to Scotland Yard and Tillizini hailed a cab and drove to an address in South London.

  At half-past twelve that day the fast train from Burboro’ to Victoria steamed slowly into the big terminus. Vera Morte-Mannery was one of the first to descend. Her foot touched the platform almost before the train stopped.

  She walked quickly through the barrier into the large space at the end of the station.

  She looked round anxiously, and then up at the clock. The man she sought was not there. She strolled aimlessly from one side of the station to the other, and was returning to the bookstall, when Festini, with rapid strides, came into the station.

  She caught his eye and he checked himself and turned about carelessly. He walked out of the station and she followed. At his uplifted finger a car came out of the rank and drew alongside the pavement.

  Without a word she got in and he followed. They drove in silence until the car turned into Hyde Park and slowed down in obedience to the regulations.

  Then she turned to him suddenly and, with a breaking voice, asked—

  “Where is Marjorie Meagh?”

  He raised his eyebrows.

  “Marjorie Meagh?” he asked. “You do not mean to tell me that you have brought me to London to ask me a question like that?”

  “Where is Marjorie Meagh?” she asked again.

  “How on earth should I know?”

  “Festini,” she said, pleadingly, “let us be frank with one another. Marjorie has been taken by the ‘Red Hand.’ You are the ‘Red Hand.’”

  “Hush!” he muttered, savagely; “don’t shout, people could hear you on the sidewalks!”

  His manner to her had changed. It was a little cold, a little impatient, more than a little intolerant. She had detected the changed atmosphere the moment she had met him.

  She pressed her lips tightly together and remained silent for a little while.

  “What is your object in taking her?” she asked.

  “That is hidden from you. Do you not trust me?”

  “Trust you!” she laughed bitterly. “Have I not trusted you to the fullest extent?” she asked. “That question should rather come from me. You do not trust me, Festini.”

  It was less a statement than a pleading. She wanted him to deny it, but no denial came.

  “There are things which it is not right for me to tell you.”

  “Why?” she asked; “is there any secret of the ‘Red Hand’ which I do not know?”

  He smiled a little uneasily.

  “You did not know anything about the Fourth Plague,” he said, softly.

  “I do not complain of that,” she said, “it was too great a thing to trust with any man or woman. But there is nothing so subtle in this kidnapping of Marjorie Meagh.”

  He spread out his hands with a gesture of helplessness.

  “I cannot tell you,” he said. “There is something behind this which you cannot know.”

  “There is something behind it which I can guess!” she said fiercely. “You love Marjorie—you have taken her because you love her. Don’t deny it. I can see it in your face. Oh, you liar! You liar!”

  He had never seen her like this. It was a new force he was encountering, one which at once pleased and piqued him.

  She had been all softness, all yielding to him before, an easy conquest for this handsome man, with his soft voice and his eloquent eyes.

  In her anger she was a little terrible, but she did not terrify him. He was used to opposition, and had a quick way with it. There was enough of woman in him to appreciate her feelings. But, like the autocrat he was, he resented her revolt, and in his resentment said more than it was wise, under the circumstances, to say.

  “Yes, it is true,” he said, coolly. “I do love her. Why should I deny it? I do not love you any less because I love her. She is on a different plane to you and I.”

  Vera was breathing quickly; her bosom rose and fell with the intensity of her pent up rage. She did not speak again for a minute; she was conquering an insane desire to throw herself from the car, to run anywhere out of his sight, as she had gone, she knew, out of his heart. The fires of humiliation and jealousy burnt too fiercely within her for words.

  Again and again she checked the wild torrent of speech that rose to her lips and choked in the checking.

  And this was the end! The end of her dream, the reward for all her work, for all her treachery to those who loved her, the last stretch of the happy road which she had fondly thought led to eternity.

  From time to time he looked at her out of the corner of his eye.

  “I understand,” she said at last, speaking composedly, “your great plan has come to fruition. You have no further use for me?”

  “Do not say that, Vera,” he said.

  He was immensely relieved to discover how well she had taken the news, which, cold-blooded as he was, he had no desire, and if the truth be told, no intention of telling her.

  “You are indispensable,” he said. He tried to take her hand, but she withdrew it. “It is only the exigencies of the scheme we have in hand which has prevented me from taking you more fully into my confidence. As to Marjorie, I want you to be generous,” he said. “I want you to realize—”

  “Oh, I understand,” she said, wearily. “Were you ever sincere, Festini, were you ever faithful?”

  She looked at him searchingly.

  “I swear,” he began.

  “Don’t swear,” she said. “I think I understand.” She smiled bravely. “I’ll get out here,” she said. “I’d like a little walk. This was not exactly the outcome of the morning’s meeting that I expected,” she went on; “although I was jealous, I never realized that my suspicions were true.”

  He tried by argument to persuade her to remain with him, but she was determined. She tapped the window and the car drew up. As she alighted, he assisted her. She held out her hand.

  “Good-bye, Festini,” she said. His e
yes narrowed.

  “You must see me again, there is no goodbye with me,” he said, abruptly. “I have told you you are indispensable—I mean that.”

  She made no reply. Gently she relaxed her clasp, and her hand fell listlessly to her side. Then she turned abruptly and walked away.

  He stood watching her until she was out of sight. Could he trust her? He had a large knowledge of men, a larger of women. He had weighed all the chances; she would not betray him, he thought. These English people love to suffer in silence, to hug to their secret hearts their greatest griefs.

  He smiled, shrugged his shoulders, and, turning to the driver, directed him to a fashionable restaurant. For men, even great conspirators, must lunch.

  He stopped the car in Oxford Street to buy an evening newspaper. It was filled, as had been the morning journals, with speculations on the Fourth Plague. Would the “Red Hand” put their threat into execution? One journal had found a scientist who had discovered a specific, another gave a perfect pen picture of Tillizini. Wild and improbable rumours found prominence, there was nothing of any real account. He was closing the paper when a little paragraph which had evidently been inserted to fill up caught his eye at the bottom of the column.

  “The unfortunate man, Mansingham, who has added to the tragic variety of his career by being associated with the disappearance of Miss Marjorie Meagh, was an expert swimmer, and at the annual meeting of the Burboro’ Aquatic Club last night sympathetic references were made to his disappearance.”

  Festini frowned. A swimmer? Of course it was absurd. But there might have been grave danger in throwing him into the water. He was stunned, though, and three days had passed without any sign of his reappearance.

  He knew, by careful inquiry, that nobody had been picked up on the coast, but it sometimes happened that weeks elapsed before the sea gave up its dead. It was absurd to bother about that. But throughout his luncheon he found the thought intruding in his mind. Suppose this man turned up? It would have been better to have followed out the suggestion of Il Bue and have killed him right away.

  The waiter brought him his bill, and he paid, tipping the servant lavishly.

  He walked out of the hall into the big vestibule of the restaurant, selected a cigar at the little cigar counter, and strolled out into Piccadilly.

  His car, driven by a trusted member of the “Red Hand,” followed him along the broad, crowded thoroughfare at a snail’s pace.

  At the corner of Piccadilly Circus he suddenly came face to face with Frank Gallinford.

  The Englishman was looking ill; the strain of the past few days was telling on him. The loss of his fiancée was preying on his mind; he had not slept. His agents were searching the country from end to end. He had also established a little police organization of his own, for Frank Gallinford was a fairly wealthy man.

  The two men stopped, staring at each other for the fraction of a second, then Festini held out his hand with a suave smile.

  “How do you do Mr. Gallinford?” he said.

  Frank was in no mood for conversation or condolence. He uttered a few conventional words, shook hands hurriedly and passed on, leaving Festini to finish his stroll.

  Frank had not gone twenty yards before somebody pressed his arm softly. He looked round. A tall man was standing at his side. At first he did not recognize him in his rough workman’s kit and his little moustache, but when he spoke he knew him.

  “Go back after Festini,” said Tillizini quickly. “Talk to him about anything you like, hold him in conversation for a few minutes,” he turned and walked back with the other a little way, “and when you get into St. James’ Street turn off to the right. The street is up. Induce him by any art in your power to go to the other end of that street.”

  “But why?”

  “No, do not ask, ‘Why,’” said Tillizini. He gave one of his rare gestures of impatience. “Do as I tell you.”

  Frank nodded. Though he had no heart for the job, he quickened his steps and overtook Festini.

  Tillizini watched them. He saw them strolling aimlessly along, and turn into the street he had indicated. The waiting car on the other side of the road entered the street and then stopped; the road was up, and beyond half-way down there was no thoroughfare. The chauffeur looked round anxiously. He had to back out and make a detour by the way of the lower end of Regent Street and Piccadilly. He had another alternative, which was to wait. He looked undecided. He was assisted in his decision as to what he should do by the gesture of a policeman, who ordered him back to the main street.

  Very slowly the car backed out. It was a minute or two before he could bring the long Napier into the stream of traffic moving up towards Piccadilly Circus. There was a block here, and another wait ensued.

  Tillizini had posted himself where he could watch every movement. He saw the look of anxiety on the chauffeur’s face. The opportunity he had been waiting for for the last two hours now presented itself. He threaded his way through the block of traffic and passed the car. He took something from his pocket and, bending over the rear wheel, pressed down his hand upon it. A broad strip of rubber with a steel clamp at either end.

  Deftly he fixed it over the wheel. In its centre an arrow head projected. It had been carefully prepared and only the expert, interested in the accessories of cars, would have thought it unusual.

  With one glance to see that his work had been well done, he slipped through the traffic, and gained the other side of the road. He walked a little way down Regent Street, from thence he saw the two men talking. Festini was walking back. He had missed the car and had understood why it had failed to follow him.

  Tillizini saw him take a hurried farewell of Frank and walk quickly up the street. The professor smiled. It appealed to him, this spectacle of Festini and his car playing hide-and-seek with one another.

  He did not attempt to rejoin Frank, instead he called a cab, which came reluctantly, for this man in working clothes did not inspire confidence, and drove straight to Scotland Yard.

  That night every police station in England received a notification, and in the early hours of the morning, policemen on foot, cyclists and mounted men were searching the wet roads for the track of a motor car which displayed an arrow at regular intervals.

  XV. —THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER

  FROM HER WINDOW MARJORIE could see the broad and sluggish river. When the fog did not veil every object from sight, she caught a glimpse of big ships passing up and down; fussy little tugs drawing strings of lighters, brown-sailed barges that went with stately leisure to the sea. In the foreground was marshland, uncultivated.

  The sluggish river, for such it was at a distance of a quarter of a mile, was the River Thames; the marshland was that unlovely stretch of swamp on its north bank, between Southend and Barking.

  By putting her face close to the window she could see a small, low-roofed building, tarred and weatherproof, from which men in white overalls came and went.

  The house she was in was an old one, as houses go. It was built of brick; the rooms were lofty and cold and a little damp.

  Even in the room which had been allotted to her use, the paper had peeled off the wall in great pieces, and not even the fire, which the hard-faced Italian woman who attended her kept fed, dispelled the chilly dreariness of the apartment.

  She had been brought here by night from the house on the cliff. She had lain down to sleep after supper in her Kentish prison and had awakened to find herself lying in the room she now tenanted.

  The knowledge that they must have drugged her food filled her with panic.

  The day following her arrival she had refused to eat or drink, and now it was not until the Italian woman had partaken from the dishes she supplied, before Marjorie’s eyes, that the girl consented to touch the food.

  Fortunately, she numbered amongst her accomplishments a working knowledge of Italian. Of late she
had polished up her acquaintance with the language. Frank’s work mainly lay in Italy, and she had seen the necessity for becoming proficient.

  But she received no satisfactory reply to any of her inquiries. She had not seen Festini since that day on the cliff, though she had heard his voice often enough.

  She guessed rather than knew that in the little low-roofed house near by, was being prepared that terrible culture which was to bring England to her knees in submission.

  Everything that Festini could do to relieve the monotony of her life, he had done.

  She was plentifully supplied with books and papers, and to serve her table he had secured a perfect Italian cook.

  The only man she had spoken to was a tall giant of a man, whom she had seen on the cliff with Festini.

  He answered her questions gruffly, and in monosyllables.

  He had merely come into the room, she gathered, to see to the security of the bars which had been fixed outside the window. She was ill with anxiety; she dare not give her imagination its rein.

  It was Frank she thought of—Frank, whom she knew would be distracted with grief; and at night she alternately wept and prayed for the strength and sanctuary of his arms.

  It was on the third day following her abduction. She was sitting trying to read by the window, when the click of the lock brought her to her feet.

  She heard the voice of Festini outside, and in a moment he had come into the room, locking the door behind him.

  They stood confronting one another. She had walked swiftly to the centre of the room, and placed the table between them.

  “Well?” he said, with his pleasant smile, “I hope you have everything you want.”

  She made no reply at once. Then—

  “I want my freedom,” she said.

  “That,” he said, with a little bow, “I am sorry I cannot grant you. It is necessary for my health and security that you should stay a little longer. Afterwards, I hope to make you the wife of one of the richest men in Europe.”

  “That will never be,” she said, steadily. “I would sooner be the first victim of the plague you threaten, than endure that humiliation.”