The Fellowship of the Frog Read online

  “I caught a glimpse of him as I fired, and I am under the impression that he was masked.”

  “Did you recognize his voice?”

  “No,” said Johnson, shaking his head.

  Elk examined the window. The catch had been cleverly forced— “cleverly” because it was a new type of patent fastening familiar to him, and which he did not remember ever having seen forced from the outside before. Instinctively his mind went back to the burglary at Lord Farmley’s, to that beautifully cut handle and blown lock; and though, by no stretch of imagination, could the two jobs be compared, yet there was a similarity in finish and workmanship which immediately struck him.

  What made this burglary all the more remarkable was that, for the first time, there had appeared somebody who claimed to be the Frog himself. Never before had the Frog given tangible proof of his existence. He understood the organization well enough to know that none of the Frog’s willing slaves would have dared to use his name. And why did he consider that Johnson was worthy of his personal attention?

  “No,” said Johnson in answer to his question, “there are no documents here of the slightest value. I used to bring home a great deal of work from Maitlands; in fact, I have often worked into the middle of the night. That is why my dismissal is such a scandalous piece of ingratitude.”

  “You have never had any private papers of Maitland’s here, which perhaps you might have forgotten to return?” asked Elk thoughtfully, and Johnson’s ready smile and twinkling eyes supplied an answer.

  “That’s rather a graceful way of putting the matter,” he said. “No, I have none of Maitland’s documents here. If you care, you can see the contents of all my cupboards, drawers and boxes, but I can assure you that I’m a very methodical man; I know practically every paper in my possession.”

  Walking home, Elk reviewed the matter of this surprising appearance. If the truth be told, he was very glad to have some additional problem to keep his mind off the very unpleasant interview which was promised for the morning. Captain Dick Gordon would assume all responsibility, and probably the Commissioners would exonerate Elk from any blame; but to the detective, the “people upstairs” were almost as formidable as the Frog himself.

  XXII.

  THE INQUIRY

  He intended making an early call at King’s Cross to examine the contents of the bag, but awoke the next morning, his mind filled with the coming inquiry to the exclusion of all other matters; and although he entered Johnson’s burglary in his report book very carefully, and locked away the cloak-room ticket in his safe, he was much too absorbed and worried to make immediate inquiries.

  Dick arrived for the inquiry, and his assistant gave him a brief sketch of the burglary in Fitzroy Square.

  “Let me see that ticket,” he asked.

  Elk, unlocking the safe, produced the green slip.

  “The ticket has been attached to something,” said Dick, carrying the slip to the window. “There is the mark of a paper-fastener, and the mark is recent. This may produce a little information,” he said as he handed it back.

  “It’s very unlikely,” said Elk despondently as he kicked the door of the safe. “Those people upstairs are going to give us hell.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Dick. “I tell you, our friends above are so tickled to death at recovering the Treaty that they’re not going to worry much about Hagn.”

  It was a remarkable prophecy, remarkably fulfilled. Elk was gratified and surprised when he was called into the presence of the great—every Commissioner and Chief Constable sat round the green board of judgment—to discover that the attitude of his superiors was rather one of benevolent interest than of disapproval.

  “With an organization of this character we are prepared for very unexpected developments,” said the Chief Commissioner. “In ordinary circumstances, the escape of Hagn would be a matter calling for severe measures against those responsible. But I really cannot apportion the blame in this particular case. Balder seems to have behaved with perfect propriety; I quite approve of your having put him into the cell with Hagn; and I do not see what I can do with the gaoler. The truth is, that the Frogs are immensely powerful—more powerful than the agents of an enemy Government, because they are working with inside knowledge, and in addition, of course, they are our own people. You think it is possible, Captain Gordon, to round up the Frogs?—I know it will be a tremendous business. Is it worth while?”

  Dick shook his head.

  “No, sir,” he replied. “They are too numerous, and the really dangerous men are going to be difficult to identify. It has come to our knowledge that the chiefs of this organization—at least, some of them—are not so marked.”

  Not all the members of the Board of Inquiry were as pleasant as the Chief Commissioner.

  “It comes to this,” said a white-haired Chief Constable, “that in the space of a week we have had two prisoners killed under the eyes of the police, and one who has practically walked out of the cell in which he was guarded by a police officer, without being arrested or any clue being furnished as to the method the Frogs employed.” He shook his head. “That’s bad, Captain Gordon.”

  “Perhaps you would like to take charge of the inquiry, sir,” said Dick. “This is not the ordinary petty larceny type of crime, and I seem to remember having dealt with a case of yours whilst I was in the Prosecutor’s Department, presenting less complicated features, in which you were no more successful than I and my officers have been in dealing with the Frogs. You must allow me the greatest latitude and exercise patience beyond the ordinary. I know the Frog,” he said simply.

  For some time they did not realize what he had said.

  “You know him?” asked the Chief Commissioner incredulously.

  Dick nodded.

  “If I were to tell you who it was,” he said, “you would probably laugh at me. And obviously, whilst it is quite possible for me to secure an arrest this morning, it is not as easy a matter to produce overwhelming evidence that will convict. You must give me rope if I am to succeed.”

  “But how did you discover him, Captain Gordon?” asked the Chief, and Elk, who had listened, dumbfounded, to this claim of his superior, waited breathlessly for the reply.

  “It was clear to me,” said Dick, speaking slowly and deliberately, “when I learnt from Mr. Johnson, who was Maitland’s secretary, that somewhere concealed in the old man’s house was a mysterious child.” He smiled as he looked at the blank faces of the Board. “That doesn’t sound very convincing, I’m afraid,” he said, “but nevertheless, you will learn in due course why, when I discovered this, I was perfectly satisfied that I could take the Frog whenever I wished. It is not necessary to say that, knowing as I do, or as I am convinced I do, the identity of this individual, events from now on will take a more interesting and a more satisfactory course. I do not profess to be able to explain how Hagn came to make his escape. I have a suspicion—it is no more than a suspicion—but even that event is soluble if my other theory is right, as I am sure it is.”

  Until the meeting was over and the two men were again in Elk’s office, the detective spoke no word. Then, closing the door carefully, he said:

  “If that was a bluff of yours, Captain Gordon, it was the finest bluff I have ever heard, and I’ve an idea it wasn’t a bluff.”

  “It was no bluff,” said Dick quietly. “I tell you I am satisfied that I know the Frog.”

  “Who is it?”

  Dick shook his head.

  “This isn’t the time to tell you. I don’t think any useful purpose would be served if I made my views known—even to you. Now what about your cloak-room ticket?”

  Dick did not accompany him to King’s Cross, for he had some work to do in his office, and Elk went alone to the cloakroom. Producing the ticket, he paid the extra fees for the additional period of storage, and received from the attendant a locked brown leathe
r bag.

  “Now, son,” said Elk, having revealed his identity, “perhaps you will tell me if you remember who brought this bag?”

  The attendant grinned.

  “I haven’t that kind of memory,” he said.

  “I sympathize with you,” said Elk, “but possibly if you concentrated your mind, you might be able to recall something. Faces aren’t dates.”

  The attendant turned over the leaves of his book to make sure.

  “Yes, I was on duty that day.”

  “What time was it handed in?”

  He examined the counterfoils.

  “About eleven o’clock in the morning,” he said. He shook his head. “I can’t remember who brought it. We get so much luggage entered at that time in the morning that it’s almost impossible for me to recall any particular person. I know one thing, that there wasn’t anything peculiar about him, or I should have remembered.”

  “You mean that the person who handed this in was very ordinary. Was he an American?”

  Again the attendant thought.

  “No, I don’t think he was an American, sir,” he said. “I should have remembered that. I don’t think we have had an American here for weeks.”

  Elk took the bag to the office of the station police inspector, and with the aid of his key unlocked and pulled it wide open. Its contents were unusual. A suit of clothes, a shirt, collar and tie, a brand-new shaving outfit, a small bottle of Annatto, a colouring material used by dairymen, a passport made out in the name of “John Henry Smith,” but with the photograph missing, a Browning pistol, fully loaded, an envelope containing 5,000 francs and five one-hundred-dollar bills; these comprised the contents.

  Elk surveyed the articles as they were spread on the inspector’s table.

  “What do you make of that?”

  The railwayman shook his head.

  “It’s a fairly complete outfit,” he said.

  “You mean a get-away outfit? That’s what I think,” said Elk; “and I’d like to bet that one of these bags is stored at every railway terminus in London!”

  The clothing bore no marks, the Browning was of Belgian manufacture, whilst the passport might, or might not, have been forged, though the blank on which it was written was obviously genuine. (A later inquiry put through to the Foreign Office revealed the fact that it had not been officially issued.)

  Elk packed away the outfit into the bag.

  “I shall take these to the Yard. Perhaps they’ll be called for—but more likely they won’t.”

  Elk came out of the Inspector’s office on to the broad platform, wondering what it would be best to do. Should he leave the bag in the cloak-room and set a man to watch? … That would be a little futile, for nobody could call unless he had the ticket, and it would mean employing a good officer for nothing. He decided in the end to take the bag to the Yard and hand it over for a more thorough inspection.

  One of the Northern expresses had just pulled into the station, two hours late, due to a breakdown on the line. Elk stood looking idly at the stream of passengers passing out through the barrier, and, so watching, he saw a familiar face. His mind being occupied with this, the familiarity did not force itself upon his attention until the man he had recognized had passed out of view. It was John Bennett—a furtive, hurrying figure, with his battered suit-case in his hand, a dark felt hat pulled over his eyes.

  Elk strolled across to the barrier where a station official was standing.

  “Where does this train come from?”

  “Aberdeen, sir.”

  “Last stop?” asked Elk.

  “Last stop Doncaster,” said the official.

  Whilst he was speaking, Elk saw Bennett returning. Apparently he had forgotten something, for there was a frown of annoyance on his face. He pushed his way through the stream of people that were coming from the barriers, and Elk wondered what was the cause of his return. He had not long to wait before he learnt.

  When Bennett appeared again, he was carrying a heavy brown box, fastened with a strap, and Elk recognized the motion-picture camera with which this strange man pursued his paying hobby.

  “Queer bird!” said Elk to himself and, calling a cab, carried his find back to headquarters.

  He put the bag in his safe, and sent for two of his best men.

  “I want the cloak-rooms of every London terminus inspected for bags of this kind,” he said, showing the bag. “It has probably been left for weeks. Push the usual inquiries as to the party who made the deposit, select all likely bags, and, to make sure, have them opened on the spot. If they contained a complete shaving kit, a gun, a passport and money, they are to be brought to Scotland Yard and held for me.”

  Gordon, whom he afterwards saw, agreed with his explanation for the presence of this interesting find.

  “At any hour of the day or night he’s ready to jump for safety,” said Elk admiringly; “and at any terminus we shall find money, a change of kit and the necessary passport to carry him abroad, Annatto to stain his face and hands—I expect he carries his own photograph. And by the way, I saw John Bennett.”

  “At the station?” asked Dick.

  Elk nodded.

  “He was returning from the north, from one of five towns—Aberdeen, Arbroath, Edinburgh, York or Doncaster. He didn’t see me, and I didn’t push myself forward. Captain, what do you think of this man Bennett?”

  Dick did not reply.

  “Is he your Frog?” challenged Elk, and Dick Gordon chuckled.

  “You’re not going to get my Frog by a process of elimination, Elk, and you can save yourself a whole lot of trouble if you cut out the idea that cross-examining me will produce good results.”

  “I never thought anything so silly,” said Elk. “But John Bennett gets me guessing. If he were the Frog, he couldn’t have been in Johnson’s sitting-room last night.”

  “Not unless he motored to Doncaster to catch an alibi train,” said Dick, and then: “I wonder if the Doncaster police are going to call in headquarters, or whether they’ll rely upon their own intelligence department.”

  “About what?” asked Elk surprised.

  “Mabberley Hall, which is just outside Doncaster, was burgled last night,” said Dick, “and Lady FitzHerman’s diamond tiara was stolen—rather supports your theory, doesn’t it, Elk?”

  Elk said nothing, but he wished most fervently that he had some excuse or other for searching John Bennett’s bag.

  XXIII.

  A MEETING

  Heron’s club had been temporarily closed by order of the police, but now was allowed to open its doors again. Ray invariably lunched at Heron’s unless he was taking the meal with Lola, who preferred a brighter atmosphere than the club offered at midday.

  Only a few tables were occupied when he arrived. The stigma of the police raid lay upon Heron’s, and its more cautious clients had not yet begun to drift back. It was fairly well known that something had happened to Hagn, the manager, for the man had not appeared since the night of the raid. There were unconfirmed rumours of his arrest. Ray had not troubled to call for letters as he passed through the hall, for very little correspondence came to him at the club. He was therefore surprised when the waiter, having taken his order, returned, accompanied by the clerk carrying in his hand two letters, one heavily sealed and weighty, the other smaller.

  He opened the big envelope first, and was putting in his fingers to extract the contents when he realized that the envelope contained nothing but money. He did not care to draw out the contents, even before the limited public. Peeping, he was gratified to observe the number and denomination of the bills. There was no message, but the other letter was addressed in the same handwriting. He tore this open. It was innocent of address or date, and the typewritten message ran:

  “On Friday morning you will assume a dress which will be sent to you, and you wi
ll make your way towards Nottingham by road. You will take the name of Jim Carter, and papers of identification in that name will be found in the pockets of the clothes which will reach you by special messenger to-morrow. From now onward you are not to appear in public, you are not to shave, receive visitors or pay visits. Your business at Nottingham will be communicated to you. Remember that you are to travel by road, sleeping in such lodging-houses, casual wards or Salvation Army shelters as tramps usually patronize. At Barnet, on the Great North Road, near the ninth milestone, you will meet another whom you know, and will accompany him for the remainder of the journey. At Nottingham you will receive further orders. It is very likely that you will not be required, and certainly, the work you will be asked to do will not compromise you in any way. Remember your name is Carter. Remember you are not to shave. Remember also the ninth milestone on Friday morning. When these facts are impressed upon you, take this letter, the envelope, and the envelope containing the money, to the club fire-place, and burn them. I shall see you.”

  The letter was signed “Frog.”

  So the hour had come when the Frogs had need of him. He had dreaded the day, and yet in a way had looked forward to it as one who wished to know the worst.

  He faithfully carried out the instructions, and, under the curious eyes of the guests, carried the letter and the envelopes to the empty brick fire-place, lit a match and burnt them, putting his foot upon the ashes.

  His pulse beat a little quicker, the thump of his heart was a little more pronounced, as he went back to his untouched lunch. So the Frog would see him—was here! He looked round the sparsely filled tables, and presently he met the gaze of a man whose eyes had been fixed upon him ever since he had sat down. The face was familiar, and yet unfamiliar. He beckoned the waiter.