The Fellowship of the Frog Page 23

  “Is it Maitland?” he asked.

  “I think so,” she said.

  He frowned.

  “I can’t understand these visits,” he said. “Do you think he’s mad?”

  She shook her head. After the precipitate flight of the old man on his last visit, she had not expected that he would come again, and guessed that only some matter of the greatest urgency would bring him. She heard her father moving about his room as she went through the darkened dining-room into the passage which opened directly on to the garden.

  “Is that you, miss?” quavered a voice in the darkness.

  “Yes, Mr. Maitland.”

  “Is he up?” he asked in an awe-stricken whisper.

  “You mean my father? Yes, he’s awake.”

  “I’ve got to see you,” the old man almost wailed. “They’ve took him.”

  “Taken whom?” she asked with a catch in her voice.

  “That fellow Balder. I knew they would.”

  She remembered having heard Elk mention Balder.

  “The policeman?” she asked. “Mr. Elk’s man?”

  But he was off on another tack.

  “It’s you he’s after.” He came nearer to her and clutched her arm. “I warned you—don’t forget I warned you. Tell him that I warned you. He’ll make it good for me, won’t he?” he almost pleaded, and she began to understand dimly that the “he” to whom the old man was referring was Dick Gordon. “He’s been with me most of the night, prying and asking questions. I’ve had a terrible night, miss, terrible,” he almost sobbed. “First Balder and then him. He’ll get you—not that police gentleman I don’t mean, but Frog. That’s why I wrote you the letter, telling you to come up. You didn’t get no letter, did you, miss?”

  She could not make head or tail of what he was saying or to whom he was referring, as he went on babbling his story of fear, a story interspersed with wild imprecations against “him.”

  “Tell your father, dearie, what I said to you.” He became suddenly calmer. “Matilda said I ought to have told your father, but I’m afraid of him, my dear, I’m afraid of him!”

  He took one of her hands in his and fondled it.

  “You’ll speak a word for me, won’t you?” She knew he was weeping, though she could not see his face.

  “Of course I’ll speak a word for you, Mr. Maitland. Oughtn’t you to see a doctor?” she asked anxiously.

  “No, no, no doctors for me. But tell him, won’t you—not your father, I mean, the other feller—that I did all I could for you. That’s what I’ve come to see you about. They’ve got Balder—” He stopped short suddenly and craned his head forward. “Is that your father?” he asked in a husky whisper.

  She had heard the footsteps of John Bennett on the stairs.

  “Yes, I think it is, Mr. Maitland,” and at her words he pulled his hand from hers with a jerk and went shuffling down the pathway into the road and out of sight.

  “What did he want?”

  “I really don’t know, father,” she said. “I don’t think he can be very well.”

  “Do you mean mad?”

  “Yes, and yet he was quite sensible for a little time. He said they’ve got Balder.”

  He did not reply to her, and she thought he had not heard her.

  “They’ve taken Balder, Mr. Elk’s assistant. I suppose that means he has been arrested?”

  “I suppose so,” said John Bennett, and then: “My dear, you ought to be in bed. Which way did he go?”

  “He went toward Shoreham,” said the girl. “Are you going after him, father?” she asked in surprise.

  “I’ll walk up the road. I’d like to see him,” said John Bennett. “You go to bed, my dear.”

  But she stood waiting by the door, long after his footsteps had ceased to sound on the road. Five minutes, ten minutes passed, a quarter of an hour, and then she heard the whine of a car and the big limousine flew past the gate, spattering mud, and then came John Bennett.

  “Aren’t you in bed?” he asked almost roughly.

  “No, father, I don’t feel sleepy. It is late now, so I think I’ll do some work. Did you see him?”

  “Who, the old man? Yes, I saw him for a minute or two.”

  “Did you speak to him?”

  “Yes, I spoke to him.” The man did not seem inclined to pursue the subject, but this time Ella persisted.

  “Father, why is he frightened of you?”

  “Will you make me some coffee?” said Bennett.

  “Why is he frightened of you?”

  “How do I know? My dear, don’t ask so many questions. You worry me. He knows me, he’s seen me—that is all. Balder is held for murder. I think he is a very bad man.”

  Later in the day she revived the subject of Maitland’s visit.

  “I wish he would not come,” she said. “He frightens me.”

  “He will not come again,” said John Bennett prophetically.

  The house in Berkeley Square which had passed into the possession of Ezra Maitland had been built by a nobleman to whom money had no significance. Loosely described as one of the show places of the Metropolis, very few outsiders had ever marvelled at the beauty of its interior. It was a palace, though none could guess as much from viewing its conventional exterior. In the gorgeous saloon, with its lapis-lazuli columns, its fireplaces of onyx and silver, its delicately panelled walls and silken hangings, Mr. Ezra Maitland sat huddled in a large Louis Quinze chair, a glass of beer before him, a blackened clay pipe between his gums. The muddy marks of his feet showed on the priceless Persian carpet; his hat half eclipsed a golden Venus of Marrionnet, which stood on a pedestal by his side. His hands clasped across his stomach, he glared from under his white eyebrows at the floor. One shaded lamp relieved the gloom, for the silken curtains were drawn and the light of day did not enter.

  Presently, with an effort, he reached out, took the mug of beer, which had gone flat, and drained its contents. This dare and the mug replaced, he sank back into his former condition of torpor. There was a gentle knock at the door and a footman came in, a man of powder and calves.

  “Three gentlemen to see you, sir. Captain Gordon, Mr. Elk, and Mr. Johnson.”

  The old man suddenly sat up.

  “Johnson?” he said. “What does he want?”

  “They are in the little drawing-room, sir.”

  “Push them in,” growled the old man.

  He seemed indifferent to the presence of the two police officers, and it was Johnson he addressed.

  “What do you want?” he asked violently. “What do you mean by coming here?”

  “It was my suggestion that Mr. Johnson should come,” said Dick.

  “Oh, your suggestion, was it?” said the old man, and his attitude was strangely insolent compared with his dejection of the early morning.

  Elk’s eyes fell upon the empty beer-mug, and he wondered how often that had been filled since Ezra Maitland had returned to the house. He guessed it had been employed fairly often, for there was a truculence in the ancient man’s tone, a defiance in his eye, which suggested something more than spiritual exaltation.

  “I’m not going to answer any questions,” he said loudly. “I’m not going to tell any truth, and I’m not going to tell any lies.”

  “Mr. Maitland,” said Johnson hesitatingly, “these gentlemen are anxious to know about the child.”

  The old man closed his eyes.

  “I’m not going to tell no truth and I’m not going to tell no lies,” he repeated monotonously.

  “Now, Mr. Maitland,” said the good-humoured Elk, “forget your good resolution and tell us just why you lived in that slum of Eldor Street.”

  “No truth and no lies,” murmured the old man. “You can lock me up but I won’t tell you anything. Lock me up. My name’s Ezra Maitland; I am
a millionaire. I’ve got millions and millions and millions! I could buy you up and I could buy up mostly anybody! Old Ezra Maitland! I’ve been in the workhouse and I’ve been in quod.”

  Dick and his companion exchanged glances, and Elk shook his head to signify the futility of further questioning the old man. Nevertheless, Dick tried again.

  “Why did you go to Horsham this morning?” he asked, and could have bitten his tongue when he realized his blunder. Instantly the old man was wide awake.

  “I never went to Horsham,” he roared. “Don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m not going to tell you anything. Throw ‘em out, Johnson.”

  When they were in the street again, Elk asked a question.

  “No, I’ve never known him to drink before,” said Johnson. “He has always been very abstemious so long as I’ve known him. I never thought I could persuade him to talk.”

  “Nor did I,” said Dick Gordon—a statement which more than a little surprised the detective.

  Dick signalled to the other to get rid of Johnson, and when that philosophical gentleman had been thanked and sent away, Dick Gordon spoke urgently.

  “We must have two men in this house at once. What excuse can we offer for planting detectives on Maitland?”

  Elk pursed his lips.

  “I don’t know,” he confessed. “We shall have to get a warrant before we arrest him; we could easily get another warrant to search the house; but beyond that I fear we can’t go, unless he asks for protection.”

  “Then put him under arrest,” said Dick promptly.

  “What is the charge?”

  “Hold him on suspicion of being associated with the Frogs, and if necessary move him to the nearest police station. But it has to be done at once.”

  Elk was perturbed.

  “It isn’t a small matter to arrest a millionaire, you know, Captain Gordon. I daresay in America it is simple, and I am told you could pinch the President if you found him with a flask in his pocket. But here it is a little different.”

  How very different it was, Dick discovered when he made application in private for the necessary warrants. At four o’clock they were delivered to him by the clerk of a reluctant magistrate, and, accompanied by police officers, be went back to Maitland’s palatial home.

  The footman who admitted them said that Mr. Maitland was lying down and that he did not care to disturb him. In proof, he sent for a second footman, who confirmed the statement.

  “Which is his room?” said Dick Gordon. “I am a police officer and I want to see him.”

  “On the second floor, sir.”

  He showed them to an electric lift, which carried the five to the second floor. Opposite the lift grille was a large double door, heavily burnished and elaborately gilded.

  “Looks more like the entrance to a theatre,” said Elk. in an undertone.

  Dick knocked. There was no answer. He knocked louder. Still there was no answer. And then, to Elk’s surprise, the young man launched himself at the door with all his strength. There was a sound of splitting wood and the door parted. Dick stood in the entrance, rooted to the ground.

  Ezra Maitland lay half on the bed, his legs dragging over the side. At his feet was the prostrate figure of the old woman whom he called Matilda. They were both dead, and the pungent fumes of cordite still hung in a blue cloud beneath the ceiling.

  XXIX.

  THE FOOTMAN

  Dick ran to the bedside, and one glance at the still figures told him all he wanted to know.

  “Both shot,” he said, and looked up at the filmy cloud under the ceiling. “May have happened any time—a quarter of an hour ago. This stuff hangs about for hours.”

  “Hold every servant in the house,” said Elk in an undertone to the men who were with him.

  A doorway led to a smaller bedroom, which was evidently that occupied by Maitland’s sister.

  “The shot was fired from this entrance,” said Dick. “Probably a silencer was used, but we shall hear about that later.”

  He searched the floor and found two spent cartridges of a heavy calibre automatic.

  “They killed the woman, of course,” he said, speaking his thoughts aloud. “I was afraid of this. If I could only have got our men in!”

  “You expected him to be murdered?” said Elk in astonishment.

  Dick nodded. He was trying the window of the woman’s room. It was unfastened, and led on to a narrow parapet, protected by a low balustrade. From there, access could be had into another room on the same floor, and no attempt had been made by the murderer to conceal the fact that this was the way he had passed. The window was wide open, and there were wet footmarks on the floor. It was a guest room, slightly overcrowded with surplus furniture, which had been put there apparently by the housekeeper instead of in a lumber-room.

  The door opened again into the corridor, and faced a narrow flight of stairs leading to the servants’ quarters above. Elk went down on his knees and examined the tread of the carpet carefully.

  “Up here, I think,” he said, and ran ahead of his chief.

  The third floor consisted entirely of servants’ rooms, and it was some time before Elk could pick up the footprints which led directly to No. 1. He tried the handle: it was locked. Taking a pace backward, he raised his foot and kicked open the door. He found himself in a servant’s bedroom, which was empty. An attic window opened on to the sloping roof of another parapet, and without a second’s hesitation Dick went out, following the course of that very precarious alleyway. Farther along, iron rails protected the walker, and this was evidently one of the ways of escape in case of fire. He followed the “path” across three roofs until he came to a short flight of iron stairs, which reached down to the flat roof of another house, and a guard fire-escape. Guarded it had been, but now the iron gate which barred progress was open, and Dick ran down the narrow stairs into a concrete yard surrounded on three sides by high walls and on the fourth by the back of a house, which was apparently unoccupied, for the blinds were all drawn.

  There was a gate in the third wall, and it was ajar. Passing through, he was in a mews. A man was washing a motorcar a dozen paces from where he stood, and they hurried toward him.

  “Yes, sir,” said the cleaner, wiping his streaming forehead with the back of his hand, “I saw a man come out of there about five minutes ago. He was a servant—a footman or something—I didn’t recognize him, but he seemed in a hurry.”

  “Did he wear a hat?”

  The man considered.

  “Yes, sir, I think he did,” he said. “He went out that way,” and he pointed.

  The two men hurried along, turned into Berkeley Street, and as they did so, the car-washer turned to the closed doors of his garage and whistled softly. The door opened slowly and Mr. Joshua Broad came out.

  “Thank you,” he said, and a piece of crisp and crackling paper went into the washer’s hand.

  He was out of sight before Dick and the detective came back from their vain quest.

  No doubt existed in Dick’s mind as to who the murderer was. One of the footmen was missing. The remaining servants were respectable individuals of unimpeachable character. The seventh had come at the same time as Mr. Maitland; and although he wore a footman’s livery, he had apparently no previous experience of the duties which he was expected to perform. He was an ill-favoured man, who spoke very little, and “kept himself to himself,” as they described it; took part in none of their pleasures or gossip; was never in the servants’ hall a second longer than was necessary.

  “Obviously a Frog,” said Elk, and was overjoyed to learn that there was a photograph of the man in existence.

  The photograph had its origin in an elaborate and somewhat pointless joke which had been played on the cook by the youngest of the footmen. The joke consisted of finding in the cook’s workbasket a photograph of the ugly
footman, and for this purpose the young servant had taken a snap of the man.

  “Do you know him?” asked Dick, looking at the picture. Elk nodded.

  “He has been through my hands, and I don’t think I shall have any difficulty in placing him, although for the moment his name escapes me.”

  A search of the records, however, revealed the identity of the missing man, and by the evening an enlargement of the photograph, and his name, aliases and general characteristics, were locked into the form of every newspaper in the metropolis.

  One of the servants had heard the shot, but thought it was the door being slammed—a pardonable mistake, because Mr. Maitland was in the habit of banging doors.

  “Maitland was a Frog all right,” reported Elk after he had seen the body removed to the mortuary. “He’s well decorated on the left wrist—yes, slightly askew. That is one of the points that you’ve never cleared up to me, Captain Gordon. Why they should be tattooed on the left wrist I can understand, but why the frog shouldn’t be stamped square I’ve never understood.”

  “That is one of the little mysteries that can’t be cleared up until we are through with the big ones,” said Dick.

  A telegram had been received that afternoon by the missing footman. This fact was not remembered until after Elk had returned to headquarters. A ‘phone message through to the district post-office brought a copy of the message. It was very simple.

  “Finish and clear,” were the three words. The message was unsigned. It had been handed in at the Temple Post Office at two o’clock, and the murderer had lost no time in carrying out his instructions.

  Maitland’s office was in the hands of the police, and a systematic search had already begun of its documents and books. At seven o’clock that night Elk went to Fitzroy Square, and Johnson opened the door to him. Looking past him, Elk saw that the passage was filled with furniture and packing cases, and remembered that early in the morning Johnson had mentioned that he was moving, and had taken two cheaper rooms in South London.