 THE CRASH OF GUNS, A FLARE ACROSS THE HEAVENS, BATTLE, DISMAY, DEATH, A NIGHT OF CHAOS AND FOUR MEN IN A THICKET. ONE OF THEM SPOKE. A BLOODY HUND PRISON! THAT'S US! MY GOD! WHERE ARE WE? ANOTHER ANSWERED COSTICLY. MISSION? WE ARE LOST AND VERY TIRED. A THIRD MAN LAUGHED. THE LAUGH WAS SHORT. A FRENCHMAN! WHERE IN HELL DID YOU COME FROM? WHERE YOU AND THE REST OF US CAME FROM? THE FRENCHMAN'S VOICE WAS PULISHED. HIS ENGLISH FALTLESS. WE COME FROM THE TICKLING OF THE GERMAN BAYONETS. THE FIRST MAN ELABORATED THE STATEMENT GRITUITOUSLY. I don't know about you ones, but our crowd was done in good and proper two days ago. God! Ain't there no end to them? Millions! And us running. What I says is, let them have the blink and channel ports, and let us clear out. I wasn't no ways in favour of messing up in this, when the bleeding parliament says up and at them in the beginning, least ways, nothing except the navy. Drafted, I take it, observed the third man coolly. There was no answer. The fourth man said nothing. There was a whir in the air, closer, closer, a roar that surged at the eardrums, a terrific crash near at hand, a tremble of the earth like a shuddering sob. The first man echoed the sob. Carry on, carry on, I can't carry on, not for hours. I've been running for two days, I can't even sleep, my God! No good carrying on for a bit snapped the third man. There's no place to carry on to. They seem to be all around us. That's the first one that's come near us, said the Frenchman. Maybe it's only, what do you call it, a straggler. Like us, said the third man. A flare far off, hung and dropped, nebulous, ghost-like, a faint shimmer lay upon the thicket. It endured for but a moment. Three men, huddled against the tree trunks, torn, ragged and dishevelled men, stared into each other's faces. A fourth man lay outstretched, motionless, at full length upon the ground, as though he were asleep or dead. His face was hidden because it was pillowed on the earth. Well, I'm damned, said the third man, and whistled softly under his breath. Monsieur means by that, inquired the Frenchman politely. Means? repeated the third man. Oh, yes! I mean it's queer. Half an hour ago we were each a separate bit of driftwood tossed about out there. And now here we are, blown together from the four winds and linked up as close to each other by a common stake, our lives, as ever men could be. I say it's queer. He lifted his rifle, and, feeling out, prodded once or twice with the butt. It made a dull thudding sound. What are you doing? asked the Frenchman. Giving first aid to number four, said the third man grimly. He's done in, I fancy. I'm not sure, but he's the luckiest one of the lot. You're bloody well right he is, gulp, the first man. I wouldn't mind being dead if it was all over and I was dead. It's the dying and the thinking about it. I can't stick. I can't see anything queer about it. The Frenchman was judicial. He reverted to the third man's remark as though no interruption had occurred in his train of thought. We all knew it was coming, this last big, what do you call it, push of the Bosch. It has come. It is gigantic. It is tremendous. A tidal wave. Everything has gone down before it. Units all broken up, mingled one with another, a melee. It has been sous-qui-pure for thousands like us who never saw each other before, who did not even know each other existed. I see nothing queer in it, that some of us, though knowing nothing of each other, yet having the same single purpose, rest if only for a moment, shelter if only for a moment, should have come together here. To me it is not queer. Well, perhaps you're right, said the third man. Perhaps adventitious would have been better than queer. Nor adventitious, dissented the Frenchman. Since we have been nothing to each other in the past, and since our meeting now offers us collectively no better chance of safety or escape than we individually had before, there's nothing adventitious about it. Perhaps again I am wrong. There was a curious drawl in the third man's voice now. In fact, I will admit it. It is neither queer nor adventitious. It is quite, oh, quite beyond that. It can only be due to the considered machinations of the devil on his throne in the pit of hell having his bit of a fling at us, and a laugh. You're bloody well right, mumbled the first man. Damn! said the Frenchman with asperity. I don't understand you at all. The third man laughed softly. Well, I don't know how else to explain it, then, he said. The last time we... The last time, interrupted the Frenchman, I did not get a very good look at you when that flare went up, I'll admit, but enough so that I would swear I had never seen you before. Quite so, acknowledged the third man. Good, whimpered the first man. Look at that, listen to that. A light, lurid, intense for miles around, opened the darkness, and died out. An explosion rocked the earth. Ammunition dump! said the Frenchman. I'm sure of it now. I've never seen any of you before. The third man now sat with his rifle across his knees. The fourth man had not moved from his original position. I thought you were officers, blimey if I didn't, from the way you talked, said the first man, just a blinking tommy and a blinking poilou. Monsieur, said the Frenchman, and there was a challenge in his voice, I never forget a face. Nor I, said the third man quietly, nor other things, things that happened a bit back, after they put the draft into England, but before they called up the older classes. I don't know just how they worked it over here, that is, how some of them kept out of it as long as they did. Goddamn, snarled the Frenchman, Monsieur, you go too far! And Monsieur appears to have a sense of humour, peculiarly his own. Perhaps Monsieur will be good enough to explain what he is laughing at? With pleasure, said the third man calmly. I was laughing at the recollection of a night, not like this one, though there's a certain analogy to it for all that. When an attack was made on, a strong box in a West End residence in London, Lord Seaton's to be precise. The first man stirred. He seemed to be groping around him where he sat. Foolish days, perverted patriotism, said the third man. The family jewels, the hereditary treasures, gathered together to be offered on the altar, of England's need. Fancy, but it was being done, you know. Rather. Only in this case the papers got hold of it, then plated up a bit as a wonderful example, and that's how three men, none of whom had anything to do with the others, got hold of it too. No, I'm wrong there. Lord Seaton's valet naturally had inside information. Blimey, rasped the first man suddenly, a copper and khaki, that's what, a bloody sneaking swine. It was inky black in the thicket. The third man's voice cut through the blackness like a knife. You put that gun down, I'll do all the gun-handling that's going to be done. Drop it!" A snarl answered him, a snarl, and the rattle of an object falling to the ground. There were three of them, said the third man, composedly. The valet, who hadn't reached his class in the draft, the Frenchman, who spoke marvellous English, which is perhaps after all the reason why he had not yet, at that time, served in France and and someone else. Monsieur, said the Frenchman, silkily. You become interesting. The curious part of it is, said the third man, that each of them in turn got the swag, and each of them could have got away with it, with hardly any doing at all, if it hadn't been that in turn each one shivvied the other. The Frenchman took it from the valet, as the valet stuffed like a powder-pigeon with diamonds and brooches and pendants and little odds and ends like that, was on his way to a certain pinch-faced fence named Konitsky, in a slimy bit of neighborhood in the East End. The Frenchman, who was an Englishman in France, took the swag to a strange little place, in a strange little street, not far from the bank of the Seine. The place of one pair-moucher, a place that in times of great stress also became the shelter and home of the same Frenchman, who, shall I say, my belief is outstandingly entitled to the honor of having raised his profession to a degree of art, unapproached by any of his confrères in France to-day. Sacré nom, said the Frenchman, with a gasp. There is only one Englishman who knew that, and I thought he was dead. An Englishman beside whom, the Frenchman you speak of, is not to be compared. You are? I haven't mentioned any names, said the Third Man smoothly. Why should you? You are right, said the Frenchman. Perhaps we have already said too much. There is a fourth here. No, said the Third Man. I had not forgotten him. He toyed with the rifle on his knee. But I had thought perhaps you would have recognized the valet's face. Strike me pink, muttered the First Man. So Frenchy's the blighter that did me in, was he? It is the uniform and the dirt, perhaps, and the very poor light, said the Frenchman apologetically. But you, pardon, monsieur, I mean the other of the three, I did not see him, and monsieur will perhaps understand that I am deeply interested in the rest of the story. The Third Man did not answer. A sort of momentary, weird and breathless silence had settled on the thicket. On all around, on the night, save only for the whining of some oncoming thing through the air. Wine, wine, wine! The nerves, tauntant, loosened, were jangling things. The Third Man raised his rifle, and somewhere the whining-shell burst, and in the thicket a minor crash, a flash, gone on the instant, eye-blinding. The First Man screamed out, Christ, what have you done? I think he was done in any way, said the Third Man calmly. It was as well to make sure. God! whimpered the First Man. Monsieur, said the Frenchman, I have always heard that you were incomparable. I salute you. As you said, you had not forgotten. We can speak at ease now. The rest of the story the Third Man laughed. Come to me in London after the war, he said, and I will tell it to you, and perhaps there will be other things to talk about. I shall be honoured, said the Frenchman. We three. I begin to understand now. The house should not be divided against itself. Is it not so? We should go far. It is fate to-night that— Or the devil, said the Third Man. My God! The First Man began to laugh. The cracked, jarring laugh. After the war, the blinking war, after hell! There ain't no end, there ain't no! And then a player hung again in the heavens, and in the thicket three men sat huddled against the tree-trunks, torn, ragged and dishevelled men. But they were not staring into each other's faces now. They were staring, their eyes magnetically attracted, had a spot on the ground where a man, a man murdered, should be lying. But the man was not there. The Fourth Man was gone. The East End, being, as it were, more akin to the technique and the mechanics of the thing, applauded the craftsmanship. The West End, a little grimly on the part of the men, and with a loquacity not wholly free from nervousness on the part of the women, wondered who would be next. The Coves is runnin' that show, said the East End, with its tongue delightedly in its cheek, knows is why a bot wish I was him. The police are nincompoops, said the outraged masculine West End. Absolutely! Yes, of course, it's quite too impossible for words, said the feminine of the West End. One never knows when one's own, do let me give you some tea, dear Lady Wyntern. For something that had merely been of faint and passing interest, a subject of casual remark, it had grown steadily, insidiously, had become conversationally epidemic. All London talked, the papers talked, verylandly. Alone in that great metropolis, new Scotland Yard was silent, do if the journals were to be believed, to the fact that that world famous institution was come upon a state of hopeless and atrophied senility. With foreknowledge obtained in some amazing manner, with ingenuity, with boldness, and invariably with success, a series of crimes stretching back several years had been, were being, perpetrated with insistent regularity. These crimes had been confined to the West End of London, save on a few occasions when the perpetrators had gone slightly afield, because certain wealthy West Enders had, for the moment, changed their accustomed habitat. The journals at spasmodic intervals printed a summary of the transactions. In jewels, and plate, and cash, the figures had reached an astounding total, not one penny of which had ever been recovered or traced. Secret wall safes, hidden depositories of valuables, opened with obliging celerity and disgorged their contents to some apparition which immediately vanished. There was no clue. It simply happened again and again. Traps had been set with patience and considerable artifice. The traps had never been violated. London was accustomed to crimes just as any great city was. There were hundreds of crimes committed in London. But these were of a genre all their own. These were distinctive. These were not to be confused with other crimes, nor their authors with other criminals. And so London talked, and waited. It was raining, a thin drizzle. The night was uninviting without, cozy within the precincts of a certain well-known West End club, the Clermont, to be exact. Two men sat in the lounge, in a little recess by the window. One, a man of perhaps thirty-three, of athletic build, with short-cropped black hair and clean-shaven face, a one-time Captain of Territorials in the late war, and though once known on the club membership role as Captain Francis Newcomb, was to be found there now as Francis Newcomb Esquire. The other, a very much older man, with a thin gray little face and thin gray hair, would, on recourse to the club role, have been found to be Sir Harris Greaves Bart. The baronet made a gesture with his cigar, indicative of profound disgust. "'Democracy,' he ejaculated. The world's safe for democracy. I am nauseated with that phrase. What does it mean? What did it ever mean? We have had three years now, since the war, which was to work that marvel, and I have seen no signs of it yet. So far as I,' Captain Francis Newcomb laughed. And yet, he said, I am body and my person one of those signs. You can hardly deny that, Sir Harris. Certainly I would never have had, shall I call it, the distinction of being admitted to this club had it not been for the democratic leaven working through the war. You remember, of course, an officer and a gentleman. We of England were certainly consistent in that respect. While one was an officer, one was a gentleman. The clubs were all pretty generally thrown open to officers during the war. Some of them came from the Lord knows where. T.G.'s they were called, you remember, temporary gentlemen. Afterward, but of course that's another story so far as most of them were concerned. Take my own case. I enlisted in the ranks, and toward the latter end of the war I obtained my commission. I became a T.G. And as such I enjoyed the privileges of this club. I was eventually, however, one of the fortunate ones. At the close of the war the club took me on its permanent strength and, here go, I became a permanent gentleman. Democracy! Private Francis Newcomb, Captain Francis Newcomb, Francis Newcomb Esquire. A rather thin case, smiled the Baronet. What I was about to say when you interrupted me was that, so far as I can see, all that the world has been made safe for by the war is the active expression of the predatory instinct in man. I refer to the big interests, the trusts, to the radical outcroppings of certain labour elements, to, yes, he tapped a newspaper that lay on the table beside him, the Simon pure criminal such as this mysterious gang of desperados that has London at its wit's ends, and those of us who have anything to lose in a state of constant apoplexy. Captain Francis Newcomb shook his head. I think you're wrong, sir, he said judiciously. It isn't the aftermath of the war or the result of the war. It is the war, of which the recent struggle was only a phase. It's been going on since the days of the caveman. You've only to reduce the nation to the terms of the individual and you have it. The nation lusts after something which does not belong to it. It proceeds to take it by force. If it fails it is punished. That is war. The criminal lusts after something. He flings down his challenge. If he is caught he is punished. That is war. What is the difference? The baronet sipped at his scotch and soda. Hmm, which brings us? He suggested. Nowhere, said Captain Francis Newcomb promptly. It's been going on for ages. It'll go on for all time. Always the individual predatory, inevitably in cycles, the cumulative individual running a muck as a nation. Why, you, sir, yourself, a little while ago, when somebody here in the room made a remark to the effect that he believed this particular series of crimes was directly attributable to the war because it would seem that some one of ourselves, some one who has had the entree everywhere, who, through being contaminated by the filth out there, had lost poise and was probably the guilty one, meaning, I take it, that the chap finding himself in a hole wasn't so nice or particular in his choice of the way out of it as he would have been but for the war. You, sir Harris, denied this quite emphatically. It, uh, wouldn't you say, rather bears me out? The old baronet smiled grimly. Quite possibly, he said, but if so I must confess that my conclusion was based on a very different premise from yours. In fact, for the moment I was denying the theory that the criminal in question was one of ourselves, quite apart from any bearing the war might have had upon the matter. The ex-Captain of Territorials selected a cigarette with care from his case. Yes, he inquired politely. The old baronet cleared his throat. He glanced a little whimsically at his companion. It's been a hobby, of course, purely a hobby, but in an amateurish sort of way as a criminologist I have spent a great deal of time and money and— By Jove, really! exclaimed Captain Yukam. I didn't know, sir Harris, that you— He paused suddenly in confusion. That's anything but a compliment to your reputation, though, I'm afraid, isn't it? A bit raw of me, I—I'm sorry, sir. Not at all, said the old baronet pleasantly, and then, with a wry smile. You need not feel badly. In certain quarters, much more intimate with the subject than you could be supposed to be. I am equally unrecognized. It's very good of you to let me down so easily, said the ex-Captain of Territorials contritely. Will you go on, sir? You were saying that you did not believe these crimes were being perpetrated by one in the same sphere of life as those who were being victimized. Why is that, sir? The theory seemed rather logical. Because, said the old baronet quietly, I believe I know the man who is guilty. The ex-Captain of Territorials stared. Good Lord, sir! He gasped out. You—you can't mean that! Just that! A grim brusqueness had crept into the old baronet's voice, and one of these days I proposed to prove it. But, sir—the ex-Captain of Territorials, in his amazement, was still apparently groping out for his bearings. In that case, the authorities—surely you—they were very polite at Scotland Yard—very, the old baronet smiled dryly again. That was the quarter to which I referred, socially and criminologically, if I may be permitted the word, I fear that the Yard regards me from widely divergent angles. God damn, sir! He suddenly became irascible. They're too self-sufficient. I am a doddering and interfering old idiot. But nevertheless I am firmly convinced that I am right, and they haven't heard the end of the matter. If I have to devote every penny I've got to substantiating my theory, then bringing the guilty man to justice. Captain Francis Newcomb coughed in an embarrassed way. The old baronet reached for his tumbler and drank generously. It appeared to soothe his feelings. Tuttutt, he said self-chidingly, I mean every word of that, that is, as to my determination to pursue my own investigations to the end. But perhaps I have not been wholly fair to the Yard. So far I lack proof, I have only theory, and the Yard too has its theory. It is a very common disease. The theory of the Yard is that the man I believe to be guilty of these crimes of today died somewhere around the middle stages of the war. By Jove! Captain Francis Newcomb leaned sharply forward on the arms of his chair. You don't say! The old baronet wrinkled his brows and was silent for a moment. It's quite extraordinary, he said at last, with a puzzled smile. I can't for the life of me understand how I got on this subject, for I think we were discussing democracy. But you appear to be interested. That is expressing it mildly, said the ex-captain of Territorials earnestly. You can't in common decency refuse me the rest of the story now, Sir Harris. There is no reason that I know of why I should, said the old baronet. Did you ever hear of a man called Shadow Varn? Captain Francis Newcomb shook his head. No, he said. Only then, said the old baronet, you may remember the robbery at Lord Seaton's place? It was during the war. No, said the other thoughtfully. I can't say I do. I don't think I ever heard of it. Well, perhaps you wouldn't, nodded the old baronet. It happened at a time when, from what you've said, I would imagine you were in the ranks, and, however, it doesn't matter. The point is that the robbery at Lord Seaton's is amazingly like I could almost say each and every one of this series of robberies that is taking place today. The same exact foreknowledge, the hidden wall-safe, or hiding-place, or repository, or whatever it might be, that was supposedly known only to the family, the utter absence of any clue, the complete disappearance of, shall we call it, the loot itself. There is only one difference. In the case of Lord Seaton, the jewels, it was principally a jewel robbery, were eventually recovered. They were found in Paris in the possession of Chateau Varnes. But, the old baronet smiled a little grimly again, the police were not to blame for that. Sir Harris Greaves, amateur criminologist, reverted to his tumbler of scotch and soda. Captain Francis Newcomb knocked the ash from his cigarette with little taps of his forefinger. "'Yes,' he said. "'It's a bit of a story,' resumed the old baronet slowly. "'Yes, quite a bit of a story. I do not know how Chateau Varnes got to Paris. I simply know that, had he not taken sick, neither he nor the jewels would ever have been found. But perhaps I am getting a little too far ahead. I think I ought to say that Chateau Varnes, though he had never actually up to this time been known in a physical sense to the police, had established for himself a widespread and international reputation. His name here, for instance, amongst the criminal element of our own East End, was a sort of talisman, something to conjure with, as it were, though no one could ever be found, who had seen or could describe the man. I suppose that is how he got the name of Chateau. So must have known him, of course, but they were tight-lipped, and even these, I am inclined to believe, would never have been able to lay fingers on him even had they dared. He was at once an inscrutable and diabolical character. I would say, and in this, at least Scotland Yard will agree with me, he seemed like some evil, unembodied spirit upon whom one could never come in a tangible sense, but that hovered always in the background, dominating, permeating with his personality the criminal world. But if this is so, if no one knew him, or had ever seen him, said the ex-captain of Territorials, in a puzzled way, how was he recognized as Chateau Varn in Paris? I am coming to that, said the old Baronet quietly. As you know very well, in those days they were always poking into every rat hole in Paris for draft evaders. That is how they stumbled on Chateau Varn. They dug him out of one of those holes, in a very filthy hole, like a rat, like a very sick rat. The man was raving in delirium. That is how they knew they had caught Chateau Varn. Because in his delirium he disclosed his identity, and that is how they recovered Lord Seton's jewels. My word, ejaculated Captain Francis Newcombe. A bit tough, I call that. My sympathies are almost with the accused. I am afraid I have failed to make you understand the inhuman qualities of the man, said the old Baronet Tursley. However, Chateau Varn was even then too much for them, at least temporarily. A few nights later he escaped from the hospital. But he was still too sick a man to stand the pace, and they were too close on his heels. He had possibly, all told, the couple of hours of liberty, running, dodging through the streets of Paris. The chase ended somewhere on the bank of the Seine. He was fired at here as he ran, and though quite a few yards in the lead, he appeared to have been hit, for he was seen to stagger, fall, then recover himself and go on. He refused to halt. They fired and hit him again, or so they believed. He fell to the ground, and rolled over the edge into the water. And that was the last that was ever seen of him. "'My word!' ejaculated the ex-captain of Territorials again. "'That's a nice end. Then I must say, with all due deference to you, Sir Harris, that I can't see anything wrong with Scotland Yard's deduction. I fancy he's dead, fast enough.' "'Yes,' said the old Baronet deliberately, I imagined you would say so, and I too would agree were it not for two reasons. First had it been any other man than Shadow Varn, and second that the body was never recovered. "'But,' objected Captain Francis Newcomb, if, as you believe, the man is still carrying on, having been identified once, he would, wouldn't you say, be recognized again?' "'Not at all,' said the old Baronet decidedly. "'You must take into account the man's sick and emaciated condition when he was caught, and the subsequent hospital surroundings. Let those who saw him then see the same man to-day, robust, in health, and in an entirely different atmosphere, locality, and environment. Recognized?' I would say long odds against it, even leaving out of account the man's known ingenuity for evading recognition.' "'Yes,' the ex-captain of Territorials said. That is quite possible. But even granting that he is still alive, I can't see why I should believe he is at the bottom of what is going on today here in London?' supplied the old Baronet quickly. Perhaps intuition, perhaps the mystery about the man that has interested me from the time I first heard of him in the early years of the war, and which has ever since been a fascinating study with me, has something to do with it. I told you to begin with, that my proof was theory. But I believe it. I do not say he is alone in this, or was alone in the Lord Seaton affair, but he is certainly the head and front and brains of whatever he was or is engaged in. As for the similarity of the cases, I will admit that might be pure coincidence. But we know that Chateau Varn did have the Seaton jewels in his possession. The strongest point, however, that I have to offer in a tangible sense, bearing in mind the man himself and his hideously elusive propensities, is the fact that there is no absolute proof of his death. Why wasn't his body recovered? You will answer me, probably, along the same lines that the Paris police argued, and that were accepted by Scotland Yard. You will say that it was dark, that the body might not have come to the surface immediately, and under the existing conditions, by the time they procured a boat and began their search, it might easily be missed. Very good! That is quite possible. But why, then, was not the body eventually recovered, in two or three days, say, a week, if you like? You will say that this would probably be very far indeed from being the first instance in which a body was never recovered from the Sen. And here, too, you would be quite right. But I do not believe it. I do not believe it was a dead man, or a man mortally wounded, or a man wounded so badly that he must inevitably drown, who pitched helplessly into the water that night. I believe he did it voluntarily, and with considered cunning, as the only chance he had. Go into the East End. Listen to the stories you will hear about him. The world does not get rid of such as he so easily. The man is not human. The crimes he has committed would turn your blood cold. He is the most despicable, the most wanton thing that I ever heard of. He would kill with no more compunction than you would break into that match you are holding in your hand. Here he came from God alone knows, and a club attendant had stopped beside the old Baronet's chair. Yes, said the old Baronet. I beg pardon, Sir Harris, but your car is here, announced the man. Very good, thank you. The old Baronet drained his glass and stood up. Well, you have heard the story, Captain, he said, with a dry smile. I shall not embarrass you by asking you to decide between Scotland Yard and myself, but I shall at least expect you to admit that there is some slight justification for my theory. The ex-Captain of Territorials, as he rose in courtesy, shook his head quietly. If I felt only that way about it, he said slowly, I should simply thank you for a very interesting story and your confidence. As it is, there is so much justification, I feel impelled to say to you that, if this man is what you describe him to be, is as dangerous as you say he is, I would advise you, Sir Harris, in all seriousness, to leave him to Scotland Yard. What! exclaimed the old Baronet sharply, and let him go free? No, Sir, not if every effort I can put forth will prevent it. Never, Sir, under any circumstances. Captain Francis Newcomb smiled gravely, and shrugged his shoulders. Well, at least I felt I ought to say it, he said. Good night, Sir Harris, and thank you so much! Good night, Captain, replied the old Baronet cordially, as he turned away. Good night to you, Sir. Captain Francis Newcomb watched the other leave the room. Then he walked over to the window. The drizzle had developed into a downpour with gusts of wind that now pelted the rain viciously at the window-panes. He frowned at the streaming glass. A moment later, as he moved away from the window, he consulted his watch. It was a quarter past eleven. Downstairs he secured his hat and stick, and spoke to the doorman. Get a taxi, please, Martin, he requested, and tell the chap to drive me home. He lighted a cigarette as he waited, and then under the shelter of the doorman's umbrella entered the taxi. It was not far. The taxi stopped before a flat in a fashionable neighborhood that was quite in keeping with the fashionable club Captain Francis Newcomb had just left. His man admitted him. It's a filthy night, Runnels, said the ex-Captain of Territorials. Runnels slammed the door against a gust of wind. Your bloody well right, said Runnels. END OF PART ONE, CHAPTER I It was a neighborhood of alleyways and lanes of ferocious darkness, of ill-lighted baleful streets, of shadows, of doorways where no doors existed, black cavernous and sinister openings to inner chambers of misery, of squalid want, of God knows what. It was the following evening, and still early, barely eight o'clock, Captain Francis Newcomb turned the corner of one of these gloomily lighted streets, and drew instantly back to crouch, as in animal crouches before its springs, in the deep shadows of a wretched tenement building. Light foot-walls sounded, came nearer, two forms skulking, yet moving swiftly, came into sight around the corner. Captain Francis Newcomb sprang. His fist crashed with terrific force to the point of an opposing jaw. A queer grunt, and one of the two men, sprawled his length on the pavement and lay quite still. Captain Francis Newcomb's movements were incredibly swift. His left hand was at the second man's throat now, and her revolver was shoved into the other's face. The tableau held for a second. A bit of a cushing expedition, was it? said the ex-captain of the Territorials calmly. I looked a likely victim, didn't I? Just the usual bash on the head with a netty, and then the usual stripping even down to the boots, if they were good enough, and mine were good enough, eh? And I might get over that bash on the head, or my skull might be cracked. I might wake up in one of your filthy passageways here, or I might never wake up. What would it matter? It's done every night. You make your living that way. And who's to know who did it? His grip tightened suddenly on the other's throat. Your kind are better dead, said Captain Francis Newcomb, and there was something of horrible callousness in his conversational tones. You lack art. You have no single redeeming feature. It was as though now he were debating in cold precision with himself. Yes, you are much better dead. Gore blimey, Governor! Let me go!" Half choked, half whined the other. We wasn't going to touch you! No fear! Me and me mate was just going round to the pub for an off-paint. It would make a noise, said Captain Francis Newcomb, unemotionally. That is the trouble. I should have to clear out of here, and be put to the annoyance of waiting a half hour or so before I could come back and attend to my own affairs. That's the only reason I haven't fired this thing off in your face. And I'm not sure that reason's good enough. But it's a bit of a fag to argue it out, so don't move, you swine, or that'll settle it quicker still. His fingers from the other's throat searched his own wastecoat pocket and produced a silver coin. Heads or tails, he inquired casually. You call it. My God, Governor! Whimpered the man. You don't mean that. You wouldn't shoot a cof down like that, would you? My God! You wouldn't do that. Heads or tails. The ex-captain of Territorial's voice was bored. I shan't ask you again. The light was poor, the man's features, save that they were dirty and unshaven, were almost indistinguishable, but the eyes roved everywhere and hunted fear, and he lumped the fingers of one hand together and plucked with them in an unhinged way at his lips. I know, gurgled the man. My God! His words were thick. His fingers, plucking, clogged his lips. I can't, I— The mechanism of the revolver intruded itself, as unemotional as its owner, an unemotional click. The man screamed out, No, no, wait, Governor, wait! He screamed. Heads! God! Heads! When Francis Newcombe examined the coin, the sense of touch, as he rubbed his fingers over it, helped out the bad light. Right you are, he said indifferently, Heads it is, you're in luck! He tossed the coin on the pavement. I'd keep that if I were you. His voice was still level, still bored. You haven't got anything, of course, to do any sniping with, for anything as valuable as that would never remain in the possession of your kind for more than five minutes before you would have pawned it. He glanced at the prostrate form of the thug's companion, who was now beginning to show signs of returning consciousness. I fancy you'll find his jaws broken. Better give him a leg up, he said, and, turning on his heel, walked on down the street. Captain Francis Newcombe did not look back. He traversed the murky block, turned the corner, turned still another, and presently made his way through an entrance, long since doorless, into the hallway of a tenement house. It was little better than a pit of blackness here, but his movements were without hesitation, as one long and intimately familiar with his surroundings. He mounted a rickety flight of stairs, and, without ceremony, opened the door of a room on the first landing, entered, and closed the door behind him. The room had no light in it. "'Who's there?' demanded a weak, quarrelous, female voice. The visitor made no immediate reply. The place reeked with the odor of salt fish. The air was stale and an offence that assaulted the nostrils. Captain Francis Newcombe crossed to the window, wrenched at it, and flung it viciously open. A protracted fit of coughing came from a corner behind him. "'Didn't I tell you never to send for me?' he snapped out, in abrupt menace. "'How, it's you, is it?' said the woman's voice. "'Well, I ain't never done it a-four, have I? And in three years I ain't. "'You've done it now, you've done it to-night, and that's once too often,' returned Captain Francis Newcombe savagely. "'And before I'm through with you, I'll promise you you'll never do it again.' "'No,' she answered out of the darkness. "'I won't never do it again, and that's why I done it to-night, because I won't never have another chance. The doctor, he says, I ain't going to be here in the morning.' Captain Francis Newcombe lit a match. He disclosed a tallow-tip and a piece of salt fish on a battered chair, and, beyond, the shadowy outline of a bed. He swept the piece of fish to the floor out of his way, lighted the candle, and, leaning forward, held it over the bed. A woman's face stared back at him in the flickering light, a curiously blotched face, and one that was emaciated until the cheekbones seemed the dominant feature. Her dull, almost glazed gray eyes blinked painfully in even the candle rays. A dirty woollen wrap was fastened loosely around a scrawny neck, and over this their straggled strands of tangled and unkempt gray hair. "'Well, I fancy the diagnosis isn't far wrong,' said the ex-captain of Territorials critically. "'I've been too good to you, and prosperity's let you down. For three years you haven't lifted a finger except to carry a glass of gin to your lips, and now this is the end, is it?' The woman did not answer. She breathed heavily. The hectic spots on her cheeks burned a little wider. Captain Francis Newcomb set the candle back on the chair, and with his hands in his pockets stood looking at her. His face exhibited no emotion. "'I haven't heard yet why you sent for me,' he said sharply. "'Polly!' she said thickly. "'I want to know what about Polly!' Captain Francis Newcomb smiled without mirth. "'My dear Mrs. Wicks,' he said evenly. "'You know all about Polly. I distinctly remember bringing you the letter she enclosed for you, in mine ten years ago, because I distinctly remember that after you had read it I watched you tear it up, and as your education is such that you cannot write in return, I also distinctly remember that you gave me messages for her which I was to incorporate in my own reply. Since then I have not heard from Polly.' The woman raised herself suddenly on her elbow, and her face contorted, shook her fist. "'My dear Mrs. Wicks,' she mimicked furiously, through a burst of coughing. "'You're a coolon, you're a... That's what you says. You stand there and smile like a bloomin' angel, and you says, my dear Mrs. Wicks, curse you. I know more about you than you think for. Three years I've watched you, and if I've kept my tongue to me-self, that don't say I don't know what I know.' "'Indeed,' Captain Francis Newcomb shrugged his shoulders. He smiled slightly. Then I should say, if it were true, that it is sometimes dangerous, Mrs. Wicks, to know even a little about some things.' The woman rocked in the bed, and hugged her thin bosom against a spasm of coughing that came near to strangulation. "'Bah!' she shouted, when she could get her breath. "'I ain't afraid of you any more. Damn you, I'm dying anyhow. It's nothing to you with your smug smile, except you're glad I'll be out of the Y. And, and God, it ain't nothing to me either. I'm sick of it all, and I'm glad I am. But before I goes, I want to know what about Polly. What did you tie her a Y for three years ago?' For the price of two quid paid weakly to a certain Mrs. Wicks, who is Polly's mother, said Captain Francis Newcomb, composedly, and with which the said Mrs. Wicks has swum in gin ever since. Mrs. Wicks fell back exhausted on her pillow. "'What for?' she whispered in fierce insistence. "'I want to know what for?' "'Well,' said Captain Francis Newcomb, even at fifteen Polly was an amazingly pretty little girl, and she showed amazing promise. I'm wondering how she has developed. Extremely clever youngster. Don't see, in fact, Mrs. Wicks, where she got it from. Not even the local desecration of the King's English. In spite of the bored schools. Amazing! We couldn't let a flower like that bloom uncultivated, could we?' The woman was up in the bed again. "'I've got her, brat,' she cried out. "'And you,' says, send her to school with the Toffs in America, "'cause there wouldn't be no chance of doing that here at home. "'And I,' says the Toffs, don't take her kind there, neither. "'And you,' says she goes, as your ward. "'Then you can get her in, only she has to forget about these air-london slums. "'And she ain't to write no letters to me, except through you, "'cause if any was found down here, they'd turn their noses up over there and give Polly the bounce.' "'Quite right, Mrs. Wicks,' said Captain Francis Newcomb, imperturbably. And for three years Polly has been in one of the most exclusive girls' seminaries in America. And incidentally, I might say, I am arranging to go over there shortly for a little visit. If her photographs are to be relied upon, she has more than fulfilled her early promise. A very beautiful young woman, educated, and now, Mrs. Wicks, a lady. She has made a circle of friends among the best and the wealthiest. Why, even now, with the summer holidays coming on, you know, I understand she is to be the guest of a school friend in a millionaire's home. Think of that, Mrs. Wicks. What more could any woman ask for her daughter? And why should you, for instance, ask more tonight? Why this eleventh-hour curiosity? You agreed to it all three years ago, Mrs. Wicks, for two quid a week. "'Yes,' said the woman passionately, and I'm probably going to elp for it now. I know then you wasn't doing this for Polly's sake, and in the three years I kept on knowing you're more and more for the devil you are. But I says to me self that I'm here to see Polly don't come to no harm, but I ain't going to be here no more than that's what I want to know tonight, and I ask you, what's your game?' "'Really,' Captain Francis Newcomb shrugged his shoulders again. "'This isn't very interesting, Mrs. Wicks, and in any case I fail to see what you are going to do about it, or what lever you could possibly bring to bear to make me divulge what you are pleased to imagine is some base and ulterior motive in what I have done. It is quite well known among Captain Newcomb's circle that he is educating a ward in America. It is rather to his credit, is it not?' "'God curse you with your smooth tongue,' said Mrs. Wicks wildly. "'I know you've got a game, some dirty game with Polly in it. You're clever, you are, and you're ain't human. But you won't win, and all along are Polly. She won't do nothing that ain't straight. She won't. Polly ain't that kind.' "'Oh, as to that, in granting my wickedness,' said Captain Francis Newcomb indifferently, "'I shouldn't worry. Having you in mind, Mrs. Wicks, I fancy even that would be quite all right. Blood always tells, you know.' "'Blood, blood'll tell, will it?' The woman was rocking in the bed again. She burst into harsh laughter. It brought on another, and even more severe, strangling fit of coughing. "'Blood'll tell, will it?' she choked, as she gasped for breath. "'Well, so it will, so it will!' Captain Francis Newcomb stared at her from narrowed eyes. "'What do you mean by that?' he demanded sharply. But Mrs. Wicks had fallen back upon her pillow in utter exhaustion. She lay fighting painfully, pitifully now, for every breath. "'What do you mean by that?' repeated Captain Francis Newcomb, still more sharply. And then suddenly, as though some strange premonition were at work, all fight gone from her. The woman threw out her arms in a broken gesture of supplication. "'I'm a wicked woman, a bloody wicked, and I've been. God forgive me for it!' she whispered. "'Polly ain't no blood of mine.' Captain Francis Newcomb rested his elbows on the back of the chair and smiled coolly. "'I think,' he said evenly, "'it's my turn now to ask what the game is. That's a bit thick, isn't it, after three years?' The hectic spots had faded from the woman's face, and an ominous greyness was taking their place. She was crying now. "'It's God's truth,' she said. "'I was afraid you wouldn't have given me the two quid a week if you'd known I had no hold on her. Polly don't know. No one knows but me, and—' Her voice trailed off through weakness. Captain Francis Newcomb, save that his eyes had narrowed a little more, made no movement. He watched her without comment, as she struggled for her breath again. "'I didn't mean to have no fight with you. God knows I didn't—' "'God knows I didn't send for you for that. I only wanted to ask you what about Polly, and to ask you to be good to her, and—and tell you what I'm telling you now, before it's too late—and—and—' She raised herself with a sudden convulsive effort to her elbow. "'God, I—I'm going now!' With a swift movement, Captain Francis Newcomb whipped a flask from his pocket, and held it to the woman's lips. She swallowed a few drops with difficulty, and lay still. Presently Mrs. Wick's lips moved. Captain Francis Newcomb, close beside the bed now, leaned over her. "'A lie to your mother was, and her father, he was a gentleman born, he was. I—I don't know nothing about him, except she was a governess, and he hadn't much money. Neither of them had no family according to her, and counten what happened, she told the truth, poor soul!' Again Mrs. Wick's lay silent. Her lips continued to move, but they were soundless. She seemed suddenly to become conscious of this, and motioned weakly for the flask, and again with difficulty she swallowed a few drops. "'Years ago, this was!' Mrs. Wick's forced the words with long pauses between. Our times came on him, he got killed in a accident, and she took sick after Polly came, and the money went, and she wouldn't have charity, and she got down to this, like us in zeer, trying to keep body and soul together on the bit she had left. And she died, and I took Polly. Two years old Polly was, then. There wasn't no good of telling Polly, and ever give herself heirs when she had to go out and do her bit and earn something. And, what's more, if she'd known I wasn't her mother, she might have stopped working for me, and I couldn't have made her, haven't lost my hold on her, and I wasn't going to have anything like that. Polly Wick's the flower girl. Flowers, posies, pretty posies, that's where you saw her.' The woman's voice had thickened, her words in snatches were incoherent. Polly Wick's, Polly Wick's, Polly Gray, Polly Gray, your name is, Polly Gray. I got the lines in the birth paper. I kept them all these years. Here! I got them here. Where? said Captain Francis Newcomb tersely. Here! Mrs. Wick's plucked feebly at the edge of the bed-clothing. Here! Captain Francis Newcomb thrust his hand quickly in under the mattress. After a moment's search he brought out a soiled envelope. It bore a faded superscription in a scrawling hand. He picked up the candle from the chair and read it. Polly's papers, which is God's truth, Mrs. Wick's ex-her-mark. He tore the envelope open rather carefully at the end. It contained two papers that were turned a little yellow with age. Yes, it was quite true. His eyes traveled swiftly over the names. Harold Morton Gray, Elizabeth Pauline Forbes, Pauline Gray. There was a sudden sound from the bed, like a long fluttering sigh. Captain Francis Newcomb swung sharply about. The woman's arm was stretched out toward him. Dulled eyes seemed to be striving desperately in their fading vision to search his face. Polly! Mrs. Wick's whispered, For, for, for Christ's sake, be, be good to Polly, be good too. The outstretched arm fell to the bed-covering, and Mrs. Wick's lay still. Captain Francis Newcomb leaned forward, holding the candle, searching the form on the bed critically with his eyes. After a moment he straightened up. Mrs. Wick's was dead. Captain Francis Newcomb replaced the papers in the envelope and placed the envelope in his pocket. He set the candle back on the chair, blew it out, and walked across the room to the door. Gray, eh? said Captain Francis Newcomb under his breath as he closed the door behind him. Polly! Gray, eh? Well, it doesn't matter, does it? It's just as good an iron in the fire, whether it's Wick's or Gray. End of Part 1, Chapter 2. Book 1, Chapter 3 of The Four Straglers, by Frank L. Packard. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Three of them. Twenty-five minutes later Captain Francis Newcomb stood at the door of his apartment. Reynolds admitted him. Well, Cremar here yet demanded the ex-captain of Territorial's briskly. Yes, said Reynolds, been here half an hour. With Reynolds behind him, Captain Francis Newcomb entered the living room of the apartment. The tall man, immaculately dressed, with a small, very carefully trimmed black moustache, with eyes that were equally black but whose pupils were curiously minute, stood by the mantle. Ah, monsieur! he waved his arm in greeting. Salute! Back, eh, Paul? knotted Captain Francis Newcomb, flinging himself into a lounge-chair. Expected you, of course, to-night. Well, what's the news? How's the fishing-smack? Paul Cremar smiled faintly. Ah, the poor Marianne! he said. Such bad weather! It is always the bilge, if it did not leak so furiously. He lifted his shoulders and blew a wreath of cigarette smoke languidly, ceiling-ward. So, said Captain Francis Newcomb, been searched again, eh? The Frenchman laughed softly. Two very charming old gentlemen who were summering on the French coast and were so interested in everything. Could they come aboard? But why not? It was a pleasure. Some harmless old children they looked, not at all like Le Duc and called fair of the prefecture. One more sign of the times, commented Captain Francis Newcomb a little shortly. And Père-Moucher? Ah, murmured the Frenchman. That is another story. I am afraid it is true that his back is really bending under the load. He has done amazingly, but though the continent is wide, it can only absorb so much, and there are always difficulties. He says himself that we feed him too well. Captain Francis Newcomb frowned. Well, he's right, of course. Le Duc and Colpheuil, eh? I don't like it. If we needed anything further to back us up in our decision lately, that it was about time to lay low for a while, we've got it here. There is tomorrow night's affair, of course, that naturally we will carry through. But after that I think we should come to a full stop for, say, a six month's holiday. Personally, as you know, I'm rather anxious to make a little trip to America. I'll take Reynolds along as my man for the looks of it. He can play at balleting and still enjoy himself, if he keeps out of mischief, which I will see to it, Captain Francis Newcomb's lips thinned, that he does. That will account for the temporary closing up of this apartment here. And you, Paul, I suppose it will be the Riviera for you? The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders. Ah, he said, as to that I do not know. But what does it matter? He laughed good-humoredly. I have no attraction such as Monsieur with a charming ward in America. I am of the desolate, one of the forlorn of the earth in whom no one has more than a passing interest. Except Scotland Yard in the prefecture, said the ex-captain of Territorials, with a grim smile. He rose suddenly from his chair, and paced once or twice the length of the room. Yes, he said decisively, we'd be fools to do anything else. It will give Père Moucher a chance to work down his surplus stock, and the police to lose a little of their ardour. It's getting a bit hot. Scotland Yard is badly flicked on the raw. London is becoming unhealthy. Even Reynolds here, whom I would never accuse of having any delicate sense of prescience, has been uneasy of late, as though he felt the net drawing in. You're bloody well right, said Reynolds gruffly. I don't know how, but it's true. Let the copper's nose a cold scent for a while, I says. I can do with a bit of America whenever you're ready. Quite so, said Captain Francis Newcomb. It's in the air. Like Reynolds I do not know exactly where it comes from, but I know it's there. Monsieur, said the Frenchman, I have often wondered about the fourth straggler. I think you called us that night about the fourth straggler. You mean?" demanded Francis Newcomb sharply. Nothing, said the Frenchman. One sometimes wonders. That is all. The thought flashed through my mind as you spoke, but it means nothing. How could it? More than three years have gone. Let us forget my remark. He flicked the ash from his cigarette. Well, then, as I am the only one left to speak, I will say that I too agree. For six months we do not exist, so far as business is concerned. After tomorrow night he made a rye face and laughed. Well, it will be dull, I fear it will be dull, and one will become ennuié, but it is wise. So it is decided, and so there remains only tomorrow night. I was to be here this evening to discuss the details, and here I am. Shall we proceed to discuss them? I have made a promise to the little pair-moucher that when I return he shall eat a ragout from a veritable gold plate, and that Scotland Yard... The doorbell interrupted the Frenchman's words. Reynolds left the room to answer the summons. He was back in a moment with a card on a silver tray, which he handed to the ex-captain of Territorials. The card tray was significant. Captain Francis Newcomb glanced first at Ronald's face, frowned, and picked up the card. His eyes narrowed as he read it. On the card was written Detective Sergeant Mullins' New Scotland Yard. He handed the card coolly to Paul Cremar. Everything all right as far as you were concerned? He demanded in a low, quick tone. The Frenchman smiled at the card in a curious way, handed it back, and lighted a fresh cigarette. Yes, he said. Sure, said Captain Francis Newcomb. Absolutely, replied the Frenchman in the same low tone. Very good, said the ex-captain of Territorials. Don't look so damned white around the gills, Reynolds, and watch yourself. He raised his voice. Show the sergeant in, Reynolds, he said. A minute later, Reynolds ushered in a thick-set, florid-faced man. Sergeant Mullins, sir, he announced, and withdrew from the room. The sergeant looked inquiringly, from one to the other of the two men. I'm sorry to intrude, gentlemen. He said, it's Captain Newcomb. I, Captain Francis Newcomb, waved his hand pleasantly. Not at all, Sergeant. He said, I am Captain Newcomb. What can I do for you? Well, sir, said the man from Scotland Yard. I'm not saying you can do anything, and then again maybe you can. He glanced at the Frenchman, and coughed slightly. Mr. Cremar is a close friend of mine, said Captain Francis Newcomb, quietly. You may speak quite freely before him, so far as I am concerned. Very good, sir, said Sergeant Mullins. Well, then, even if the papers hadn't been full of it all day, you'd probably know about it anyway, being as how you were a friend of his. It's Sir Harris Grieves, sir. Sir Harris' murder. Captain Francis Newcomb, as though instinctively, turned toward an evening paper that lay upon the table, its great headlines screaming the murder across the front page. Good God, Sergeant! Yes, he exclaimed. It's a shocking thing. Shocking! He jerked his head toward the paper, and glanced at Paul Cremar. You've read it, of course, Paul. I've never read anything like it before, said the Frenchman grimly. The most wanton thing I ever heard of. Absolutely purposeless. Don't you be too sure about that, sir, said Detective Sergeant Mullins crisply. Things aren't done purposelessly. Least wise, not them kind of things. Exactly, agreed Captain Francis Newcomb. Right you are, Sergeant, but you'll pardon me if I appear a bit curious as to why you should have come to me about it. Well, sir, said Sergeant Mullins, that's simple enough. You are the last one who's had any conversation with Sir Harris before he was murdered. Captain Francis Newcomb stared at the Scotland Yard man in a puzzled way. I am afraid I don't quite understand, Sergeant, he said a little helplessly. According to the published accounts, Sir Harris was stabbed in his bed, presumably during the early morning hours, though no sound was heard, and the crime wasn't discovered until his man went to take Sir Harris his tea at the usual hour this morning. But perhaps the accounts are inaccurate. No, sir, said Sergeant Mullins. As far as that goes, they're accurate enough. The doctors say it must have been somewhere between two and three o'clock in the morning. Quite so, said Captain Francis Newcomb. That is what I had in mind. The last time I saw Sir Harris was yesterday evening at the club. Sir Harris left the club shortly before I did. I have no exact idea what the hour was, though the doorman would probably be able to say. But I am quite certain it could not have been later than half past eleven. It wasn't even as late as that, sir, said the man from Scotland Yard seriously. Ten after eleven it was, when Sir Harris left, and you, sir, had a quarter past. But I didn't say, sir, that you were the last one as spoke to Sir Harris alive. Conversation was what I said, sir, and a lengthy one, too. One says a lot in an hour or so, sir. Oh, I see, said Captain Francis Newcomb with a smile. Or rather, I don't. What about this conversation, Sergeant? Well, sir, if you don't mind, said Detective Sergeant Mullins, that's what I'd like to know. What it was about. Good Lord! gasped the ex-Captain of Territorials feebly. I'm not sure I know myself, now. What do men generally talk about over a scotch and soda? I believe we started with the subject of democracy. And I'm afraid, in fact, I'm certain, I talked a good bit of drivel, and incidentally settled several of the world questions, and so on. And then we drifted from one thing to another in a desultory fashion. Yes, sir, said Sergeant Mullins, and the things you drifted to, could you remember them, sir? It's very important, sir, that you should. Well, if it's important, I'll try, said Captain Francis Newcomb gravely. The shows, of course, and the American yacht race, horses, a hunting lodge Sir Harris had in Scotland, yes, I believe that's all, Sergeant, but it's quite a range at that. Detective Sergeant Mullins inspected the bottom button of his waistcoat intently. Sir Harris was a bit of a criminologist in his way. As perhaps you've heard, sir, he said. Yes, I believe I have heard it said that was a hobby of his, not at Captain Francis Newcomb. But I wouldn't have known it from anything Sir Harris said last night, if that's what you mean. The subject wasn't mentioned. Nor any crime, and particularly any particular criminal, prodded the Scotland Yard man. Captain Francis Newcomb shook his head. Not a word, he said. Detective Sergeant Mullins looked up a little gloomily from his waistcoat button. I'm sorry for that, he said. So am I, if it would have helped any, said the ex-Captain of Territorials heartily. But what's the point, Sergeant? Well, you see, sir, said the Scotland Yard man. With all due respect to the dead, Sir Harris fancied himself a bit, he did, along those lines. Some queer notions he had, sir, and stubborn, as you might say. He's got himself into trouble more than once, and the Yards had its own time with him. He's been warned, sir, often enough, and if he was alive, he wouldn't say he hadn't. It's what he's been told might happen. There's no other reason, as far as we've gone, why he should have been murdered. It looks the likely thing that he went too far this time, and got to know more than some crook took a notion it was safe to have him know. Paul Cremar smiled inscrutably at the Scotland Yard man. I take back what I said about it being a purposeless murder, Sergeant, he murmured. Yes, sir, said Detective Sergeant Mullins. Well, I fancy that's all, gentlemen. We were hoping that if matters had reached as grave a state as this, that is, if Sir Harris ever realized how deep he'd got in, it would have been a bit on his mind, as you might say, and in the course of a long conversation with a friend, sir, the hint of it, even if he didn't go any further, might have cropped up. He buttoned his coat. You're quite sure, Captain Newcomb, thinking it over, that there wasn't anything mentioned even casually like, that would give us a clue? Quite, Sergeant, said the ex-Captain of Territorials emphatically. Well, I'll be going, then, said the Scotland Yard man, and sorry to have taken up your time, sir. You've done nothing but your duty, said Captain Francis Newcomb pleasantly. He rang the bell. Runnels, bring Sergeant Mullins a drink, and with a smile to the Scotland Yard man. Will it be scotch, Sergeant? Why, thank you very much, sir, said Detective Sergeant Mullins. He took the glass from Runnels. Here's how, sir. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand. Good night, gentlemen. Good night, Sergeant, said the ex-Captain of Territorials. Good night, Sergeant, said the Frenchman. Detective Sergeant Mullins' footsteps died away in the hall. Captain Francis Newcomb's dark eyes rested unemotionally upon the Frenchman. The Frenchman leaned against the mantle and stared at the end of his cigarette. The front door closed, and Runnels came back into the room. Now, Runnels, said Captain Francis Newcomb blandly, bring us all a drink, and we will talk about tomorrow night. End of Part 1, Chapter 3 Book 1, Chapter 4 of The Forest Draglers by Frank L. Packard. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. GOLD PLATE A motor ran swiftly along a country road. Two men sat in the front seat. My friend, Runnels, said one of the two quizzically, after a silence that had endured for miles, what in hell is the matter with you tonight? I don't know, said Runnels, who drove the car. What the Captain was talking about last night, maybe, the things you feel in the air. Bah! said Paul Cremar, composedly, if it is only the air. For three years we have found nothing in the air but good fortune. That's all right, Runnels returned sullenly. But just the same, that's the way I feel, and I can't help it. We're going to lay low for a spell after tonight, and maybe that's what's wrong too, kind of as though we were pushing our luck over the edge by sticking at just one night too many. The Frenchman whistled a bar lightly under his breath. I should be delighted, delighted, he said, to leave tonight alone, but not the Earl of Claverly's gold plate. Have you forgotten that I told you I had made a promise to our little pair-moucher to eat ragout from a gold plate? I have never eaten from a gold plate. It is a dream. You're a bloody well right it is, said Runnels gruffly, and I only hope it ain't going to be anything worse in a dream tonight. It is evident, said Paul Cremar, with a low laugh, that whatever you have eaten from and whatever you have eaten of tonight, my Runnels, it has not agreed with you. Is it not so? Look here, said Runnels, suddenly. If you want to know, I'll tell you. I know everything's fixed for tonight, maybe better than it's ever been fixed before. It ain't that. It's last night. It's damned queer, that bloke from Scotland Yard showing up in our rooms. Ah, murmured Paul Cremar. Yes, my Runnels, I too have thought of that. But you were at home the night before when Sir Harris Greaves was murdered. You and the Captain, were you not? It is nothing, is it? A mere little coincidence, yes? You should know better than I do. There's nothing to know, said Runnels, shortly. It's just the idea of a Scotland Yard man coming to our diggings, like a warning somehow it looks. Yes, said Paul Cremar, quite so. And the headlights now. Hadn't you better switch them off and run a little slower, Runnels? It is not far now, if I have made no mistake in my bearings. Darkness fell upon the road. The motor slackened at speed. You were speaking of the visit from Scotland Yard? resumed the Frenchman calmly. You were at home, of course, when Captain Newcomb returned from the club the night before last at, what time was it, he said? Oh, that's straight enough, grunted Runnels. He came in about half past eleven, and we were both in bed by twelve. I've told you it ain't that. What would he have to do with sticking an old toff like Sir Harris that never done him any harm? Nothing, said Paul Cremar. I was simply thinking that Sergeant Mullin's theory reminded me of something that you, too, may perhaps remember. What's that? inquired Runnels. A rifle-shot that was fired one night in a thicket when the Bosch had us on the run, said Paul Cremar. Runnels swung sharply in his seat. God, he said hoarsely, what do you want to bring that up for to-night? Why, damn it, I can see it out there in the black of the road now. The Frenchman remained silent. Runnels spoke again after a moment. He's a rarer and all right, he is, is the Captain, he said, slowly. But it wasn't him that did in Sir Harris' grieves, I'd take my oath on that. We was both in bed by twelve, as I told you, and he was still sleeping like a babe when I got up in the morning. And you, Runnels, inquired the Frenchman softly, you, too, slept well? You mean, said Runnels quickly, that he slipped out again during the night? Not at all, said Paul Cremar, quietly. How should I know? I mean nothing, except that Captain Francis Newcomb is a man like no other man in the world, that he is, as I once had the honour to remark, incomparable. Runnels grunted over the wheel. I shan't ask him, he said, tersely. Nor I, said Paul Cremar. Again there was silence. Then the Frenchman spoke abruptly. Slower, Runnels, if I am not mistaken, we are arrived. The large gates can't be more than a quarter of a mile on, and the bit of lane that borders the park ought to be just about here. Yes, there it is. Runnels stopped the motor, and then, with the engine running softly, packed it for a short distance from the main road, down an intensely black, tree-lined lane. That's far enough, said Paul Cremar. We can't take any risk of being heard from the hall. Now edge her in under the trees. What for, grumbled Runnels, it's so bloody dark, I'd probably smash her. She's right enough as she is. There's a fat chance of anyone coming along this here lane at two o'clock in the morning, ain't there? Runnels, said the Frenchman smoothly, I quote from the book of Captain Francis Newcomb, chance is the playground of fools. Edge her in, my Runnels. Oh, all right, said Runnels, and a moment later the lane was empty. Still another moment, and the two men, each carrying two rather large-sized, empty traveling bags, began to make their way silently and cautiously through the thickly wooded park of the estate. It was not easy going in the darkness. Now and then they stumbled. Once or twice Runnels cursed fiercely under his breath. Once or twice the Frenchman lost his urbanity and swore softly in his native tongue. Five, ten minutes passed, and now the two reached the farther end of the wooded park, and halted here, drawn back a little in the shadow of the trees. Before them was a narrow breadth of lawn, and beyond a great rambling, tarted pile lay black even against the darkness, its castellated roof and points making a jagged fringe against the skyline. Runnels appeared suddenly to find vent for his ill humour in a savage chuckle. What is it, Runnels, demanded the Frenchman. I was just thinking that in the five or six years since I was here with Lord Seaton, you know, I ain't forgotten his nibs the earl of cloverly. I'd like to see his face in the morning. He's a craved old bird. My word, he'll die of apoplexy, he will, and if he don't, he won't be so keen on his house parties to visiting Nabob's and cabinet ministers. He didn't send into London and get his gold service out of the bank for us when we were here. Perhaps, said the Frenchman gently, he did not know that you were valiant Lord Seaton at the time, or perhaps it was because he did. Ah, chuck it, said Runnels gruffly. He stared at the black shadowy building for a minute. Then abruptly, It's two o'clock, ain't it? You looked, didn't you? Yes, said Paul Cremar, I looked when we left the motor. The time's right, it was just ten minutes of two. Well, what the blinkin'-ells the matter now, then, complained Runnels. The place is as black as a cat. They're all in bed, aren't they? That is not for me to say, replied the Frenchman calmly. We will wait, Runnels. Runnels, with another grunt, sat down on one of the bags, his back against a tree. The Frenchman remained standing, his eyes glued on the great house across the lawn. I, said Runnels after a moment, and chuckled savagely to himself again. I'd give a bob or two, I would, to see the old boy in the morning, a fussy, nosy, old fidget-budget. That's what he is, a poking of his sharp little nose into everything, and always afraid some one won't earn the measly screw he's paying for work he ought to pay twice as much for. It's no wonder he's rich. You seem to have very pleasant recollections of your visit, Runnels, said the Frenchman slyly. I wonder what he caught you at. He didn't catch me, said Runnels defiantly, though I'll say this, that if I'd known then that I was ever coming back now, I'd have kept my eyes peeled, and he'd be going into mourning for more on his blessed gold plate to-night. He didn't bother me none, me being Lord Seton's man, but at that I saw enough of him so that the talk that went on in the servants' hall wasn't in any foreign language that I couldn't tumble to. My eye, said Runnels, a rare state he'll be in. The Frenchman said nothing. The minutes dragged along. Runnels, too, had relapsed into silence. A quarter of an hour passed. Then Runnels commenced to mutter under his breath and move restlessly on his improvised seat, and then, getting up suddenly, he moved close over beside the Frenchman. I say, whispered Runnels uneasily, I don't like this. I don't. What do you suppose is up? A great deal, I have no doubt, my Runnels, said the Frenchman imperturbably, more perhaps than you and I could overcome in the same time, if at all. That's all right, returned Runnels. I'm not saying it ain't, but it's getting creepy standing here and staring your eyes out. I'm beginning to see the trees moving around and coming at you, and in every bit of breeze the leaves are like a lot of bloody voices whispering in your ears. I wished to God you hadn't said anything about that night. It gives me the— Look! said the Frenchman suddenly. From an upper window, out of the blackness of the building across the lawn, there showed a faint spot of light that held for a few seconds, and then, in quick succession, a series of little flashes came from the room within. The two men stood motionless, intent, staring at the window. The flashes ceased. The Frenchman reached out and laid his hand on Runnels' arm. No need for a repeat, he said quickly. You got it, didn't you? My word, exclaimed Runnels, two guards, butler's pantry, all clear, strike me pink! The Frenchman laughed purringly under his breath. Did I not say he was incomparable? Come on, then, Runnels, quickly now. And now it was, as though two shadows moved, flitting swiftly across the lawn, and along the edge of the building, and around to the rear. And here they crouched before a doorway, and the Frenchman whispered, Don't be delicate about it, Runnels. This isn't any inside job. Nick it up badly enough so as a blind man could see where we got in. That's what I'm doing, said Runnels mechanically. His mind seemed obsessed with other things. Two guards, he muttered, and again, strike me pink! And after a moment, with both door and frame eloquent of the rough surgery that had been practiced upon them, the door opened. The two men entered, and closed the door silently behind them. An electric torch stabbed suddenly through the blackness and played for a moment inquisitively over its surroundings. Taint changed a bit, as I said when I saw the plan, commented Runnels. They went on quickly, but where before there had been a steady play of the electric torch, it winked now through the darkness only at intervals. The door opened here and there noiselessly. The footsteps of the men were cautious, wary, almost without sound. And then, as they halted finally, and the torch shot out its ray again, Runnels drew in his breath with a low, catchy whistling sound. The torch disclosed a narrow serving pantry, and on the floor at one side a great metal box or chest, obviously the object of their visit. But Runnels for the moment was apparently not interested in the chest. Look at that! he breathed torsely, and pointed to the farther end of the pantry, where a swinging door was a jar, and through which an upturned foot protruded. The Frenchman set his bags down beside the metal chest, moved swiftly forward, pushed the swinging door open, and stepped silently through into what was obviously the dining-room. And Runnels, beside him, whispered hoarsely again, but this time with a sort of amazed admiration in his voice. God! said Runnels. Neat! I calls that. Neat! What? Two men lay upon the floor, gagged, bound, and apparently unconscious. One, from his livery, was a servant in the house. The other was in civilian clothes. Paul Cremar pointed to the latter. The man that came out from London with the box from the bank, he observed complacently. He pushed Runnels back through the swinging door into the pantry. Well, my Runnels, you were grumbling over a few minutes delay. Let us see if we can be equally as expeditious and efficient with infinitely less to do. He reached the chest and examined it. Padlocks, eh? Let me see if I can persuade them. He bent over the chest, and from his pocket came a little kit of tools. Runnels stood silently by. There was no sound now, save the breathing of the two men, and, as the minutes passed, an occasional faint metallic rasp and click from Paul Cremar at work. And then the Frenchman flung back the lid and straightened up. Quick now, Runnels, to work, he said briskly. Père Moucher is waiting for his ragout. My eye, said Runnels with enthusiasm, as the electric torch bored into the interior of the box. Pipe it! I have served with the swells I have, and Lord Seaton was one of the biggest of them. But I never saw the likes of this before. Gold plait to eat off of my eye. They are very beautiful, said the Frenchman judicially, but it would be a sacrilege against art to appraise them in haste and in a poor light. Work quickly, Runnels, and do not fill any one of the bags too full. You will find it heavy. The four will hold it all comfortably. God, said Runnels eagerly, as he bent to his task. The men worked swiftly now, without words, transferring the Earl of Cloverly's priceless service of gold plate to the four travelling bags. The Frenchman, the quicker of the two, completed his task first, and locked his two bags. And then suddenly he touched Runnels on the shoulder. Listen, he whispered. What's that? Faintly, scarcely audible, there came a curiously padded, swishing sound, like slippered feet. It came from the direction not of the swing door where the two guards lay, but from beyond the door through which Runnels and the Frenchman had entered the pantry. It's someone coming, all right, Runnels whispered back. But only one, said the Frenchman instantly, quick, finish your job, but don't make a sound. There was a sudden vicious snarl in his whisper. Pull that hat of yours down over your eyes, I'll answer the door, as you English say. He moved back along the pantry with the noiseless tread of a cat, and took up his position against the wall at the edge of the closed door. From his pocket he drew a revolver. It was quite black, quite silent now, saved for the approaching footsteps. Perhaps a minute passed. And then the door opened, and a light went on. A gray-whiskered little man in a dressing-gown, with bare feet thrust into slippers, stood on the threshold. He cast startled eyes on a crouching figure in the center of the pantry, the tell-tale traveling bags, the gaping treasure chest, and wrenched a revolver from the pocket of his dressing-gown. But the Frenchman, reaching out, struck from the edge of the doorway. The revolver sailed ceilingwards from the other's hand, and exploded in mid-air. And coincidentally the Frenchman struck again with the butt of his own weapon, and the man went limply to the floor. Reynolds came staggering forward under the load of the bags. Strike me dead, he gasped, if it ain't the nosy old bird himself, serves him proper, sneaking around to make sure he ain't paying money for nothing, and hoping he'll catch him asleep on Sentry Go. The Frenchman snatched up two of the bags. Quick, he said, tersely. Captain Francis Newcomb raised his head from his pillow, and propped himself up on his elbow. A door nearby suddenly opened. Other doors were being wrapped upon. Voices came. The ex-captain of Territorials sprang from his bed, thrust his feet into slippers, threw a bathrobe over his pajamas, opened his door, and stepped out into the hall. Someone had already turned on a light. He found himself amongst a group of fellow-guests whose number was being constantly augmented. From other doorways, wary of their extreme dishevel, women's faces peered out timidly, their voices less restrained, demanding to know what was the matter, added an hysterical note to the scene. A shot was certainly fired somewhere in the house, though I couldn't place where it came from, declared someone. I am quite sure of it. There is no question about it, corroborated another. It woke me up, and I ran out here into the hall. The Earl is not in his room, announced a third excitedly. I've just been there. Ring for the servants! screeched an elderly female voice. Someone may be killed. For God's sake! snapped a man gruffly. I didn't hear it myself, but if a shot was fired it's fairly obvious by now that it wasn't fired up here. What are you standing around like a pack of sheep for? That's what I was wondering, said Captain Francis Newcomb softly to himself, and joined the now concerted rush down the stairway. Lights were going on all over the house now, and the men's servants began to appear. The rush scurried from one room to another. A cry went up from someone ahead that turned the rush into the dining room, and there, in their motley garbs, chorusing excited exclamations, the crowd surrounded the two gagged and bound guards. Then someone else shouted from the pantry that the metal chest had been broken open, and that the gold service was gone. There was another rush in that direction. Captain Francis Newcomb accompanied this rush. On the floor lay a revolver. The ex-captain of Territorials picked it up. Hello! he ejaculated. It's rather queer this has been left behind. Or perhaps it belongs to one of the two out there in the dining room. No, sir, said one of the servants at his elbow. It's the Earl's, sir. I'd know it anywhere. And, begging your pardon, sir, it's a bit strange that he hasn't been seen since. Here he is! cried a voice from farther behind the pantry door. Here, lend a hand! The Earl's been hurt! Captain Francis Newcomb aiding. The Earl was carried back to the dining room, and restoratives hastily applied. Here, the man in livery, released now, his voice weak and unsteady, was telling his story. His companion was still unconscious. God knows, the man was saying, we was in the pantry, and brown there, he thought he heard a sound out here in the dining room. Then he gets up and pushes the swinging door open, then goes through, then a minute later I hear what I think is him calling me. Here, quick, Johnston, he says, and I goes through the door, and something bashes me over the head, and I goes out. What happened, though, is as clear as daylight now. Brown goes through the door and gets hit on the head, and I goes through the door and gets hit on the head. And it wasn't brown as called to me, it was the blighter that did us in, and the Earl's voice broke in suddenly. I'm all right, I tell you, he insisted weakly. There were two of them, one behind the door knocked the revolver out of my hand as I fired, and smashed me over the head with something, bags, travelling bags, for the plate, that's the way they're carrying it, I, the Earl's voice, trailed off. It can't have been more than five minutes ago, then, said the man with the gruff voice, for they were therefore in the house when the shot was fired. They can't have got very far carrying that load. Quick now, we'll search the park. But they wouldn't attempt to carry it very far anyway, objected someone. They'd have a motor, of course. Exactly, retorted the other, but not near enough to the house to be heard. Did anyone hear a motor after that shot was fired? Of course not. We may get them before they get their motor. Also, we'll use a motor too. Any one of the chauffeurs here? Yes, sir, answered a man. Good. Anyone armed? I've got the Earl's revolver, said Captain Francis Newcomb. Well, there's the gun room, said the man who had assumed command, and you servants get lanterns and things. Look lively now, sharps the word. And for some reason Captain Francis Newcomb smiled grimly to himself as he attached his person to the chauffeur and, accompanied by three other pajama-clad guests, raced from the house. At the garage Captain Francis Newcomb appropriated the front seat beside the chauffeur. His fellow guests scrambled into the tonneau, and a moment later the big car shot around the end of the house and began to sweep down the driveway. The ex-Captain of Territorials turned around in his seat for a backward glance as they tore along. Every window in the great rambling castle-like edifice appeared to be a light. This caused a filmy, lighted zone without, and through this raced ghostly figures in bath-robes and dressing-gowns that were almost instantly swallowed up in the shadows of the trees. And from amongst the trees, dancing in and out, like huge fireflies in their effect, there showed in constantly increasing numbers the glint of lanterns. But now the motor was at the large gates, nosing the main road, and the chauffeur pulled up. Which way would you say, sir? he asked anxiously. I'd vote for whichever is the shortest way to London. That's to the left, isn't it? Captain Francis Newcomb responded promptly. He turned to his fellow guests. I don't know what you think about it. Yes, one of the others answered. I'd say that's the way they'd most likely take. Very good, sir, said the chauffeur. Left it is, and he broke short off. There they are! he cried excitedly. Listen! They're coming out of that lane there, over to the right. He swung the motor sharply into the straight of the main road. There they are! See them! he cried again, as the headlights brought the rear of a speeding motor into view. The old general back there in the house was right. They didn't bring their motor any nearer, for fear it would be heard. That's where it has been, up the lane there. But we've got them now. This old girl would touch seventy, then never turn a hair. Corking contributed Captain Francis Newcomb enthusiastically. You're sure of the seventy, are you? Rather, exclaimed the chauffeur. Look for yourself, sir. We're overhauling them now, like one o'clock. The ex-captain of Territorials, for a moment, stared intently along the headlights' rays, to where, gradually, the other motor was coming more and more into focus. By Jove, I believe you're right, he agreed heartily, and from the pocket of his dressing-gown produced the Earl's revolver. The motor was lurching now, with the speed. The hundred yards intervening between the flying cars diminished to seventy-five, to fifty, still closer. The men in the tonneau clung to their seats, twenty-five yards. Captain Francis Newcomb shouted to his companions over the roar and sweep of the wind. I'll take a pot at the beggars, and see if that'll stop them. He yelled. Better chance over the top of the windshield. What? Captain Francis Newcomb stood up, swayed with the car, fired twice in quick succession, and, once after a short pause, over the top of the windshield, but the ex-captain of Territorials' mark seemed curiously comprehensive and expanse, for his eyes were at the same time searching the side of the road ahead, and now there showed at the end of the headlight's path a hedgerow bordering close against the side of the road. Captain Francis Newcomb fired again, but as the car lurched now, the ex-captain of Territorials seemed momentarily to lose his balance, and with the lurch swayed heavily against the chauffeur's arm. There was a startled yell from the chauffeur, a vicious swerve, and the big motor leaped at the hedge. Came a crash of splintering glass as Captain Francis Newcomb was pitched headfirst against the windshield, a rip and rend and tear as the motor bucked and plunged and twisted in its conflict with the thick, heavy hedge, and then a terrific jolt that in its train brought a full stop, and Captain Francis Newcomb, flung back and half out of the car, put his hands to his eyes, then brought them away wet from a great gush of blood. Carry on! Carry on! he cried weakly. You'll never have a better chance to get them. My God! screamed the chauffeur. Carry on! We're a bolly wreck! What beastly luck! murmured Captain Francis Newcomb, and lost consciousness. End of Part 1, Chapter 4