The Fellowship of the Frog Page 25

  Another hour’s tramp brought him to a wooden hollow, and, consulting his map, he found he had reached his objective. There was ample evidence of the truth that his chance-found friend had told him. He saw a stoat, flying on the heels of a terrified rabbit; a hawk wheeled ceaselessly on stiff pinions above him; and presently he found the “run” he was looking for, the artfully concealed entrance to a badger’s lair.

  In the years he had been following his hobby he had overcome many difficulties, learnt much. To-day, failure had taught him something of the art of concealment. It took him time to poise and hide the camera in a bush of wild laurel, and even then it was necessary that he should take a long shot, for the badger is the shyest of its kind. There were young ones in the lair: he saw evidence of that; and a badger who has young is doubly shy.

  He had replaced the pneumatic attachment which set the camera moving, by an electrical contrivance, and this enabled him to work with greater surety. He unwound the long flex and laid it to its fullest extent, taking a position on the slope of the hill eighty yards away, making himself comfortable. Taking off his coat, which acted as a pillow on which his arms rested, he put his field-glasses near at hand.

  He had been waiting half an hour when he thought he saw a movement at the mouth of the burrow, and slowly focussed his glasses. It was the tip of a black nose he saw, and he took the switch of the starter in his hand, ready to set the camera revolving. Minutes followed minutes; five—ten—fifteen— but there was no further movement in the burrow, and in a dull way John Bennett was glad, because the warmth of the day, combined with his own weariness and his relaxed position, brought to him a rare sensation of bodily comfort and well-being. Deeper and deeper grew the languorous haze of comfort that fell on him like a fog, until it obscured all that was visible and audible. John Bennett slept, and, sleeping, dreamed of success and of peace and of freedom from all that had broken his heart, and had dried up the sweet waters of life within him. In his dream he heard voices and a sharp sound, like a shot. But he knew it was not a shot, and shivered. He knew that “crack,” and in his sleep clenched his hands convulsively. The electric starter was still in his hand.

  At nine o’clock that morning there had come into Laverstock two limping tramps, though one limped more than the other. The bigger of the two stopped at the door of the Red Lion, and an unfriendly landlord surveyed the men over the top of the curtain which gave the habitués of the bar a semi-privacy.

  “Come in,” growled Lew Brady.

  Ray was glad to follow. The landlord’s bulk blocked the entrance to the bar.

  “What do you want?” he asked.

  “I want a drink.”

  “There’s no free drinks going in this parish,” said the landlord, looking at the unpromising customer.

  “Where did you get that ‘free drink’ stuff from?” snarled Lew. “My money’s as good as anybody else’s, isn’t it?”

  “If it’s honestly come by,” said the landlord. “Let us have a look at it.”

  Lew pulled out a handful of silver, and the master of the Red Lion stood back.

  “Come in,” he said, “but don’t make a home of my bar. You can have your drink and go.”

  Lew growled the order, and the landlord poured out the two portions of whisky.

  “Here’s yours, Carter,” said Lew, and Ray swallowed the fiery dram and choked.

  “I’ll be glad to get back,” said Lew in a low voice. “It’s all right for you single men, but this tramping is pretty tough on us fellows who’ve got wives—even though the wives aren’t all they might be.”

  “I didn’t know you were married,” said Ray, faintly interested.

  “There’s a lot you don’t know,” sneered the other. “Of course I’m married. You were told once, and you hadn’t the brains to believe it.”

  Ray looked at the man open-mouthed.

  “Do you mean—what Gordon said?”

  The other nodded.

  “You mean that Lola is your wife?”

  “Why, certainly she’s my wife,” said Lew coolly. “I don’t know how many husbands she’s had, but I’m her present one.”

  “Oh, my God!”

  Ray whispered the words.

  “What’s the matter with you? And take that look off your face,” said Lew Brady viciously. “I’m not blaming you for being sweet on her. I like to see people admire my wife, even such kids as you.”

  “Your wife!” said Ray again. He could not believe the man was speaking the truth. “Is she—is she a Frog?”

  “Why shouldn’t she be?” said Brady. “And keep your voice down, can’t you? That fat old devil behind the counter is trying hard to listen. Of course she’s Frog, and she’s crook. We’re all crooks. You’re crook too. That’s the way with Lola, she likes the crooks best. Perhaps you’ll have a chance, after you’ve done a job or two—”

  “You beast!” hissed Ray, and struck the man full in the face.

  Before Lew Brady could come to his feet, the landlord was between them.

  “Outside, both of you!” he shouted, and, dashing to the door, roared half a dozen names. He was back in time to see Lew Brady on his feet, glaring at the other.

  “You’ll know all about that, Mr. Carter, one of these days,” he said. “I’ll settle with you!”

  “And, by God, I’ll settle with you!” said Ray furiously, and at that moment a brawny ostler caught him by the arm and flung him into the road outside.

  He waited for Brady to come out.

  “I’ve finished with you,” he said. His face was white, his voice was quivering. “Finished with the whole rotten shoot of you! I’m going back.”

  “You’re not going back,” said Lew. “Oh, listen, boy, what’s making you mad? We’ve got to go on to Gloucester, and we might as well finish our job. And if you don’t want to be with me after that—well, you can go ahead just as you like.”

  “I’m going alone,” said Ray.

  “Don’t be a fool.” Lew Brady came after him and seized his arm.

  For a second the situation looked ugly to the onlookers, and then, with a shrug, Ray Bennett suffered the arm to remain.

  “I don’t believe you,” he said—the first words he spoke for half an hour after they had left the Red Lion. “Why should you have lied?”

  “I’ve got sick of your good temper, that’s the whole truth, Ray— just sick to death of it. I had to make you mad, or I’d have gone mad myself.”

  “But is it true about Lola?”

  “Of course it’s not true,” lied Brady contemptuously. “Do you think she’d have anything to do with a chap like me? Not likely! Lola’s a good girl. Forget all I said, Ray.”

  “I shall ask her myself. She wouldn’t lie to me,” said the boy.

  “Of course she wouldn’t lie to you,” agreed the other.

  They were nearing their rendezvous now—the tree-furred cut in the hills—and his eyes were searching for the three white trunks that the lightning had struck. Presently he saw them.

  “Come on in, and I’ll tell you all about it,” he said. “I’m not going to walk much farther to-day. My feet are so raw you couldn’t cook ‘em!”

  He led the way between the trees, over the age-old carpet of pine needles, and presently he stopped.

  “Sit down here, boy,” he said, “and let us have a drink and a smoke.”

  Ray sat with his head on his hands, a figure so supremely miserable that any other man than Lew Brady would have felt sorry for him.

  “The whole truth is,” began Lew slowly, “that Lola’s very strong for you, boy.”

  “Then why did you tell me the other thing? Who was that?” He looked round.

  “What is it?” asked Lew. His own nerves were on edge.

  “I thought I heard somebody moving.”

  “A twig broke. Rabbits, it
may be; there are thousands of ‘em round here,” said Lew. “No, Lola’s a good girl.” He fished from his pocket a flask, pulled off the cup at the bottom and unscrewed the stopper, holding the flask to the light. “She’s a good girl,” he repeated, “and may she never be anything else.”

  He poured out a cupful, looked at the remainder in the bottle.

  “I’m going to drink her health, No, you drink first.”

  Ray shook his head.

  “I don’t like the stuff,” he said. The other man laughed.

  “For a fellow who’s been pickled night after night, that’s certainly an amusing view to take,” he said. “If you can’t hold a dram of whisky for the sake of drinking Lola’s health, well, you re a poor—”

  “Give it to me.” Ray snatched the cup, but spilt a portion, and, drinking down the contents at a draught, he threw the metal holder to his companion.

  “Ugh! I don’t care for that whisky. I don’t think I care for any whisky at all. There’s nothing harder to pretend you like than drinking, if you don’t happen to like it.”

  “I don’t think anybody likes it at first,” said Lew. “It’s like tomatoes—a cultivated taste.”

  He was watching his companion keenly.

  “Where do we go from Gloucester?” asked Ray.

  “We don’t go anywhere from Gloucester. We just stop there for a day, and then we change and come back.”

  “It’s a stupid idea,” said Ray Bennett, screwing up his eyes and yawning. “Who is this Frog, Lew?” He yawned again, lay back on the grass, his hands under his head.

  Lew Brady emptied the remainder of the flask’s contents upon the grass, screwed up the stopper and shook the cup before he rose and walked across to the sleeping boy.

  “Hi, get up!” he said.

  There was no answer.

  “Get up, you!”

  With a groan, Ray turned over, his head on his arms, and did not move again. A sudden misgiving came to Lew Brady. Suppose he was dead? He went livid at the thought. That quarrel, so cleverly engineered by the Frog, would be enough to convict him. He whipped the flask from his pocket and slipped it into the coat pocket of the sleeper. And then he heard a sound, and, turning, saw a man watching him. Lew stared, opened his mouth to speak, and:

  “Plop!”

  He saw the flash of the flame before the bullet struck him. He tried to open his mouth to speak, and:

  “Plop!”

  Lew Brady was dead before he touched the ground.

  The man removed the silencer of the pistol, walked leisurely across to where Ray Bennett was sleeping, and put the pistol by his hand. Then he came back and turned over the body of the dead man, looking down into the face. Taking one of three cigars from his waistcoat pocket, he lit it, being careful to put the match in the box whence he had taken it. He liked smoking cigars—especially other men’s cigars. Then, without haste, he walked back the way he had come, gained the main road after a careful reconnaissance, and reached the car he had left by the roadside.

  Inside the car a youth was sitting in the shelter of the curtained hood, loose-mouthed, glassy-eyed, staring at nothing. He wore an ill-fitting suit and one end of his collar was unfastened.

  “You know this place, Bill?”

  “Yes, sir.” The voice was guttural and hoarse. “Ibbley Copse.”

  “You have just killed a man: you shot him, just as you said you did in your confession.”

  The half-witted youth nodded.

  “I killed him because I hated him,” he said.

  The Frog nodded obediently and got into the driver’s seat …

  John Bennett woke with a start. He looked at the damp bell-push in his hand with a rueful smile, and began winding up the flex. Presently he reached the bush where the camera was concealed, and, to his dismay, found that the indicator showed the loss—for loss it was—of five hundred feet. He looked at the badger hole resentfully, and there, as in mockery, he saw again the tip of a black nose, and shook his fist at it. Beyond, he saw two men lying, both asleep, and both, apparently, tramps.

  He carried the camera back to where he had left his coat, put it on, hoisted the box into position and set off for Laverstock village, where, if his watch was right, he could catch the local that would connect him with Bath in time for the London express; and as he walked, he calculated his loss.

  XXXI.

  THE CHEMICAL CORPORATION

  Elk had promised to dine at Gordon’s club. Dick waited for him until twenty minutes past the hour of appointment, and Elk had neither telephoned nor put in an appearance. At twenty-five minutes past he arrived in a hurry.

  “Good Lord!” he gasped, looking at the clock. “I had no idea it was so late, Captain. I must buy a watch.”

  They went into the dining-hall together, and Elk felt that he was entering a church, there was such solemn dignity about the stately room, with its prim and silent diners.

  “It certainly has Heron’s beat in the matter of Dicky-Orum.”

  “I don’t know the gentleman,” said the puzzled Dick. “Oh, do you mean decorum? Yes, this is a little more sedate. What kept you, Elk? I’m not complaining, but when you’re not on time, I worry as to what has happened to you.”

  “Nothing has happened to me,” said Elk, nodding pleasantly to an embarrassed club waiter. “Only we had an inquiry in Gloucester. I thought we’d struck another Frog case, but the two men involved had no Frog marks.”

  “Who are they?”

  “Phenan is one—he’s the man that’s dead.”

  “A murder?”

  “I think so,” said Elk, spearing a sardine. “I think he was thoroughly dead when they found him at Ibbley Copse. They pinched the man who was with him; he was drunk. Apparently they’d been to Laverstock and had quarrelled and fought in the bar of the Red Lion. The police were informed later, and telephoned through to the next village, to tell the constable to keep his eye on these two fellows, but they hadn’t passed through, so they sent a bicycle patrol to look for them—there’s been one or two housebreakings in that neighbourhood.”

  “And they found them?”

  Elk nodded.

  “One man dead and the other man bottled. Apparently they’d quarrelled, and the drunken gentleman shot the other. They’re both tramps or of that class. Identification marks on them show they’ve come from Wales. They slept at Bath last night, at Rooney’s lodging-house, and that’s all that’s known of ‘em. Carter is the murderer—they’ve taken him to Gloucester Gaol. It’s a very simple case, and the Gloucester police gave a haughty smile at the idea of calling in Headquarters. It is a crime, anyway, that is up to the intellectual level of the country police.”

  Dick’s lips twitched.

  “Just now, the country police are passing unpleasant comments on our intelligence,” he said.

  “Let ‘um,” scoffed Elk. “Those people are certainly entitled to their simple pleasures, and I’d be the last to deny them the right. I saw John Bennett in town to-night, at Paddington this time. I’m always knocking against him at railway stations. That man is certainly a traveller. He had his old camera with him too. I spoke to him this time, and he’s full of trouble; went to sleep, pushed the gadget in his dreams and wasted a fortune in film. But he’s pleased with himself, and I don’t wonder. I saw a note about his pictures the other day in one of the newspapers. He looks like turning into a first-class success.”

  “I sincerely hope so,” said Dick quietly, and something in his tone made his guest look up.

  “Which reminds me,” he said, “that I had a note from friend Johnson asking me whether I knew Ray Bennett’s address. He said he called up Heron’s Club, but-Ray hadn’t been there for days. He wants to give him a job. Quite a big position, too. There’s a lot that’s very fine in Johnson.”

  “Did you give the address?”

 
Elk nodded.

  “I gave him the address, and I called on the boy, but he’s out of town—went out a few days ago, and is not likely to be back for a fortnight. It will be too bad if he loses this job. I think Johnson was sore with the side young Bennett put on, but he doesn’t seem to bear any malice. Perhaps there’s another influence at work,” he said significantly.

  Dick knew that he meant Ella, but did not accept the opening.

  They adjourned to the smoke-room after dinner, and whilst Elk puffed luxuriously at one of his host’s best cigars, Dick wrote a brief note to the girl, who had been in his thoughts all that day. It was an unnecessary note, as such epistles are liable to be; but it might have had, as its excuse, the news that he had heard from Elk, only, for some reason, he never thought of that until after the letter was finished and sealed. When he turned to his companion, Elk propounded a theory.

  “I sent a man up to look at some chemical works. It’s a fake company—less than a dozen hands employed, and those only occasionally. But it has a very powerful electrical installation. It is an old poison gas factory. The present company bought it for a song, and two fellows we are holding were the nominal purchasers.”

  “Where is it?” asked Dick.

  “Between Newbury and Didcot. I found out a great deal about them for a curious reason. It appears there was some arrangement between the factory, when it was under Government control, that it should make an annual contribution to the Newbury Fire Brigade, and, in taking over the property, the company also took over that contract, which they’re now trying to get out of, for the charge is a stiff one. They told the Newbury Brigade, in so many words, to disconnect the factory from their alarm service, but the Newbury Brigade, being on a good thing and having lost money by the arrangement during the war, refused to cancel the contract, which has still three years to run.”

  Dick was not interested in the slightest degree in the quarrel between the chemical factory and the fire brigade. Later, he had cause to be thankful that conversation had drifted into such a prosaic channel; but this he could not foresee.