The Fellowship of the Frog Read online

  “And frogs?” asked Dick quietly, and the question seemed to surprise the other.

  “No, I’ve never seen a frog. There’s a bunch of snakes on one wrist— I’ve seen that. Why, old man Maitland wouldn’t be a Frog, would he?” he asked, and Dick smiled at the anxiety in his tone.

  “I wondered,” he said.

  Johnson’s usually cheerful countenance was glum.

  “I reckon he is mean enough to be a Frog or ‘most anything,” he said, and at that minute Ray and his sister came into view. On Ray’s forehead sat a thundercloud, which deepened at the sight of Dick Gordon. The girl was flushed and obviously on the verge of tears.

  “Hello, Gordon!” the boy began without preliminary. “I fancy you’re the fellow that has been carrying yarns to my sister. You set Elk to spy on me—I know, because I found Elk in the act.”

  “Ray, you’re not to speak like that to Mr. Gordon,” interrupted the girl hotly. “He has never told me anything to your discredit. All I know I have seen. You seem to forget that Mr. Gordon is father’s guest.”

  “Everybody is fussing over me,” Ray grumbled. “Even old Johnson!” He grinned sheepishly at the bald man, but Johnson did not return the smile.

  “Somebody has got to worry about you, boy,” he said. The strained situation was only relieved when John Bennett, camera on back, came up the red path to greet his visitors.

  “Why, Mr. Johnson, I owe you many apologies for putting you off, but I’m glad to see you here at last. How is Ray doing at the office?”

  Johnson shot a helpless and pathetic glance at Dick. “Er—fine, Mr. Bennett,” he blurted.

  So John Bennett was not to be told that his son had launched forth on a new career? The fact that he was fathering this deception made Dick Gordon a little uncomfortable. Apparently it reduced Mr. Johnson to despair, for when a somewhat tense luncheon had ended and they were alone again in the garden, that worthy man unburdened himself of his trouble.

  “I feel that I’m playing it low on old Bennett,” he said. “Ray should have told him.”

  Dick could only agree. He was in no mood to discuss Ray at the moment. The boy’s annoyance and self-assurance irritated him, and it did not help matters to recognize the sudden and frank hostility which the brother of Ella Bennett was showing toward him. That was disconcerting, and emphasized his anomalous position in relation to the Bennetts. He was discovering what many young men in love have to discover: that the glamour which surrounds their dears does not extend to the relations and friends of their dears. He made yet another discovery. The plump Mr. Johnson was in love with the girl. He was nervous and incoherent in her presence; miserable when she went away. More miserable still when Dick boldly took her arm and led her into the rose-garden behind the house.

  “I don’t know why that fellow comes here,” said Ray savagely as the two disappeared. “He isn’t a man of our class, and he loathes me.”

  “I don’t know that he loathes you, Ray,” said Johnson, waking from the unhappy daydream into which he seemed to have fallen. “He’s an extremely nice man—”

  “Fiddlesticks!” said the other scornfully. “He’s a snob! Anyway, he’s a policeman, and I hate cops! If you imagine that he doesn’t look down on you and me, you’re wrong. I’m as good as he is, and I bet I’ll make more money before I’m finished!”

  “Money isn’t everything,” said Johnson tritely. “What work are you doing, Ray?”

  It required a great effort on his part to bring his mind back to his friend’s affairs.

  “I can’t tell you. It’s very confidential,” said Ray mysteriously. “I couldn’t even tell Ella, though she’s been jawing at me for hours. There are some jobs that a man can’t speak about without betraying secrets that aren’t his to tell. This is one of them.”

  Mr. Johnson said nothing. He was thinking of Ella and wondering how long it would be before her good-looking companion brought her back.

  Good-looking and young. Mr. Johnson was not good-looking, and only just on the right side of fifty. And he was bald. But, worst of all, in her presence he was tongue-tied. He was rather amazed with himself.

  In the seclusion of the rose-garden another member of the Bennett family was relating her fears to a more sympathetic audience.

  “I feel that father guesses,” she said. “He was out most of last night. I was awake when he came in, and he looked terrible. He said he had been walking about half the night, and by the mud on his boots I think he must have been.”

  Dick did not agree.

  “Knowing very little about Mr. Bennett, I should hardly think he is the kind of man to suffer in silence where your brother is concerned,” he said. “I could better imagine a most unholy row. Why has your brother become so unpleasant to me?”

  She shook her head.

  “I don’t know. Ray has changed suddenly. This morning when he kissed me, his breath smelt of whisky—he never used to drink. This new life is ruining him—why should he take a false name if … if the work he is doing is quite straight?”

  She had ceased addressing him as “Mr. Gordon.” The compromise of calling him by no name at all was very pleasant to Dick Gordon, because he recognized that it was a compromise. The day was hot and the sky cloudless. Ella had made arrangements to serve tea on the lawn, and she found two eager helpers in Dick and Johnson, galvanized to radiant activity by the opportunity of assisting. The boy’s attitude remained antagonistic, and after a few futile attempts to overcome this, Dick gave it up.

  Even the presence of his father, who had kept aloof from the party all afternoon, brought no change for the better.

  “The worst of being a policeman is that you’re always on duty,” he said during the meal. “I suppose you’re storing every scrap of talk in your mind, in case you have to use it.”

  Dick folded a thin slice of bread and butter very deliberately before he replied.

  “I have certainly a good memory,” he said. “It helps me to forget. It also helps me keep silent in circumstances which are very difficult and trying.”

  Suddenly Ray spun round in his chair.

  “I told you he was on duty!” he cried triumphantly. “Look! There’s the chief of the spy corps! The faithful Elk!”

  Dick looked in astonishment. He had left Elk on the point of going north to follow up a new Frog clue that had come to light. And there he was, his hands resting on the gate, his chin on his chest, gazing mournfully over his glasses at the group.

  “Can I come in, Mr. Bennett?”

  John Bennett, alert and watchful, beckoned.

  “Happened to be round about here, so I thought I’d call. Good afternoon, miss—good afternoon, Mr. Johnson.”

  “Give Sergeant Elk your chair,” growled John Bennett, and his son rose with a scowl.

  “Inspector,” said Elk. “No, I’d rather stand, mister. Stand and grow good, eh? Yes, I’m Inspector. I don’t realize it myself sometimes, especially when the men salute me—forget to salute ‘em back. Now, in America I believe patrol men salute sergeants. That’s as it should be.”

  His sad eyes moved from one to the other.

  “I suppose your promotion has made a lot of crooks very scared, Elk?” sneered Ray.

  “Why, yes. I believe it has. Especially the amatchoors,” said Elk. “The crooks that are only fly-nuts. The fancy crooks, who think they know it all, and will go on thinking so till one day somebody says, ‘Get your hat—the chief wants you!’ Otherwise,” confessed Elk modestly, “the news has created no sensation, and London is just as full as ever of tale- pitchers who’ll let you distribute their money amongst the poor if you’ll only loan ‘em a hundred to prove your confidence. And,” Elk continued after a moment’s cogitation, “there’s nearly as many dud prize-fighters living on blackmail an’ robbery, an’ almost as many beautiful young ladies running faro parlours and dance emporiums.�
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  Ray’s face went a dull red, and if looks could blast, Inspector Elk’s friends would have been speaking of him in hushed tones.

  Only then did he turn his attention to Dick Gordon.

  “I was wondering, Captain, if I could have a day off next week—I’ve a little family trouble.”

  Dick, who did not even know that his friend had a family was startled.

  “I’m sorry to hear that, Elk,” he said sympathetically. Elk sighed.

  “It’s hard on me,” he said, “but I feel I ought to tell you, if you’ll excuse me, Miss Bennett?”

  Dick rose and followed the detective to the gate, and then Elk spoke in a low tone.

  “Lord Farmley’s house was burgled at one o’clock this morning, and the Frogs have got away with the draft treaty!”

  Watching the two furtively, the girl saw nothing in Dick Gordon’s demeanour to indicate that he had received any news which was of consequence to himself. He came slowly back to the table.

  “I am afraid I must go,” he said. “Elk’s trouble is sufficiently important to take me back to town.”

  He saw the regret in Ella’s eyes and was satisfied. The leave-taking was short, for it was very necessary that he should get back to town as quickly as his car could carry him.

  On the journey Elk told all that he knew. Lord Farmley had spent the week-end in his town house. He was working on two new clauses which had been inserted on the private representation of the American ambassador, who, as usual, held a watching brief in the matter, but managed (also as usual) to secure the amendment of a clause dealing with transhipments that, had it remained unamended, would have proved detrimental to his country. All this Dick learnt later. He was unaware at the time that the embassy knew of the treaty’s existence.

  Lord Farmley had replaced the document in the safe, which was a “Cham” of the latest make, and built into the wall of his study, locked and double-locked the steel doors, switched on the burglar alarm, and went to bed.

  He had no occasion to go to the safe until after lunch. To all appearances, the safe-doors had not been touched. After lunch, intending to work again on the treaty, he put his key in the lock, to discover that, when it turned, the wards met no resistance. He pulled at the handle. It came away in his hand. The safe was open in the sense that it was not locked, and the treaty, together with his notes and amendments, had gone.

  “How did they get in?” asked Dick as the car whizzed furiously along the country road.

  “Pantry window—butlers’ pantries were invented by a burglar- architect,” said Elk. “It’s a real job—the finest bit of work I’ve seen in twenty years, and there are only two men in the world who could have done it. No finger-prints, no ugly holes blown into the safe, everything neat and beautifully done. It’s a pleasure to see.”

  “I hope Lord Farmley has got as much satisfaction out of the workmanship as you have,” said Dick grimly, and Elk sniffed.

  “He wasn’t laughing,” he said, “at least, not when I came away.”

  His lordship was not laughing when Elk returned.

  “This is terrible, Gordon—terrible! We’re holding a Cabinet on the matter this evening; the Prime Minister has returned to town. This means political ruin for me.”

  “You think the Frogs are responsible?”

  Lord Farmley’s answer was to pull open the door of the safe. On the inside panel was a white imprint, an exact replica of that which Elk had seen on the door of Mr. Broad’s flat. It was almost impossible for the non-expert to discover how the safe had been opened. It was Elk who showed the fine work that had extracted the handle and had enabled the thieves to shatter the lock by some powerful explosive which nobody in the house had beard.

  “They used a silencer,” said Elk. “It’s just as easy to prevent gases escaping too quickly from a lock as it is from a gun barrel. I tell you, there are only two men who could have done this.”

  “Who are they?”

  “Young Harry Lyme is one—he’s been dead for years. And Saul Morris is the other—and Saul’s dead too.”

  “As the work is obviously not that of two dead men, you would be well advised to think of a third,” said his lordship, pardonably annoyed.

  Elk shook his head slowly.

  “There must be a third, and he’s the cleverest of the lot,” he said, speaking his thoughts aloud. “I know the lot—Wal Cormon, George the Rat, Billy Harp, Ike Velleco, Pheeny Moore—and I’ll take an oath that it wasn’t any of them. This is master work, my lord. It’s the work of a great artist such as we seldom meet nowadays. And I fancy I know who he is.”

  Lord Farmley, who had listened as patiently as he could to this rhapsody, stalked from the library soon after, leaving the men alone.

  “Captain,” said Elk, walking after the peer and closing the door, “do you happen to know where old Bennett was last night?”

  Elk’s tone was careless, but Dick Gordon felt the underlying significance of the question, and for a moment, realizing all that lay behind the question, all that it meant to the girl, who was dearer to him than he had guessed, his breath came more quickly.

  “He was out most of the night,” he said. “Miss Bennett told me that he went away on Friday and did not return until this morning at daybreak. Why?”

  Elk took a paper from his pocket, unfolded it slowly and adjusted his glasses.

  “I’ve had a man keeping tag of Bennett’s absences from home,” he said slowly. “It was easy, because the woman who goes every morning to clean his house has a wonderful memory. He has been away fifteen times this past year, and every time he has gone there’s been a first-class burglary committed somewhere!”

  Dick drew a long breath.

  “What are you suggesting?” he asked.

  “I’m suggesting,” replied Elk deliberately, “that if Bennett can’t account for his movements on Saturday night, I’m going to pull him in. Saul Morris I’ve never met, nor young Harry Lyme either—they were before I did big work. But if my idea is right, Saul Morris isn’t as dead as he ought to be. I’m going down to see Brother Bennett, and I think perhaps I’ll be doing a bit of resurrecting!”

  IX.

  THE MAN WHO WAS WRECKED

  John Bennett was working in his garden in the early morning when Elk called, and the inspector came straight to the point.

  “There was a burglary committed at the residence of Lord Farmley on Saturday night and Sunday morning. Probably between midnight and three o’clock. The safe was blown and important documents stolen. I’m asking you to account for your movements on Saturday night and Sunday morning.”

  Bennett looked the detective straight in the eyes.

  “I was on the London road—I walked from town. At two o’clock I was speaking with a policeman in Dorking. At midnight I was in Kingbridge, and again I spoke to a policeman. Both these men know me because I frequently walk to Dorking and Kingbridge. The man at Dorking is an amateur photographer like myself.”

  Elk considered.

  “I’ve a car here; suppose you come along and see these policemen?” he suggested, and to his surprise Bennett agreed at once.

  At Dorking they discovered their man; he was just going off duty.

  “Yes, Inspector, I remember Mr. Bennett speaking to me. We were discussing animal photography.”

  “You’re sure of the time?”

  “Absolutely. At two o’clock the patrol sergeant visits me, and he came up whilst we were talking.”

  The patrol sergeant, wakened from his morning sleep, confirmed this statement. The result of the Kingbridge inquiries produced the same results.

  Elk ordered the driver of his car to return to Horsham.

  “I’m not going to apologize to you, Bennett,” he said, “and you know enough about my work to appreciate my position.”

  “I’m not complaining
,” said Bennett gruffly. “Duty is duty. But I’m entitled to know why you suspect me of all men in the world.”

  Elk tapped the window of the car and it stopped.

  “Let’s walk along the road: I can talk better,” he said.

  They got out and went some distance without speaking.

  “Bennett, you’re under suspicion for two reasons. You’re a mystery man in the sense that nobody knows how you get a living. You haven’t an income of your own. You haven’t an occupation, and at odd intervals you disappear from home and nobody knows where you go. If you were a younger man I’d suspect a double life in the usual sense. But you’re not that kind. That is suspicious circumstance Number One. Here is Number Two. Every time you disappear there’s a big burglary somewhere. And I’ve an idea it’s a Frog steal. I’ll give you my theory. These Frogs are mostly dirt. There isn’t enough brain in the whole outfit to fill an average nut—I’m talking about the mass of ‘em. There are clever men higher up, I grant. But they don’t include the regular fellows who make a living from crime. These boys haven’t any time for such nonsense. They plan a job and pull it off, or they get pinched. If they make a getaway, they divide up the stuff and sit around in cafés with girls till all the stuff is gone, and then they go out for some more. But the Frogs are willing to pay good men who are outside the organization for extra work.”

  “And you suggest that I may be one of the ‘good men’?” said Bennett.

  “That’s just what I am suggesting. This Frog job at Lord Farmley’s was done by an expert—it looks like Saul Morris.”

  His keen eyes were focused upon Bennett’s face, but not by so much as a flicker of an eyelash did he betray his thoughts.

  “I remember Saul Morris,” said Bennett slowly. “I’ve never seen him, but I’ve heard of his work. Was he—anything like me?”

  Elk pursed his lips, his chin went nearer to his chest, and his gaze became more and more intensified.