by Otto Penzler
CHAPTER VII.
The Government and Mr. Jessen
IN RECORDING THE EVENTS that followed the reappearance of the Four Just Men, I have confined myself to those which I know to have been the direct outcome of the Red Hundred propaganda and the counter-activity of the Four Just Men.
Thus I make no reference to the explosion at Woolwich Arsenal, which was credited to the Red Hundred, knowing, as I do, that the calamity was due to the carelessness of a workman. Nor to the blowing up of the main in Oxford Street, which was a much more simple explanation than the fantastic theories of the Megaphone would have you imagine. This was not the first time that a fused wire and a leaking gas main brought about the upheaval of a public thoroughfare, and the elaborate plot with which organized anarchy was credited was without existence.
I think the most conscientiously accurate history of the Red Hundred movement is that set forth in the series of ten articles contributed to the Morning Leader by Harold Ashton under the title of ‘Forty Days of Terrorism’, and, while I think the author frequently fails from lack of sympathy for the Four Just Men to thoroughly appreciate the single-mindedness of this extraordinary band of men, yet I shall always regard ‘Forty Days of Terrorism’ as being the standard history of the movement and its failure.
On one point in the history alone I find myself in opposition to Mr. Ashton, and that is the exact connection between the discovery of the Carlby Mansion Tragedy and the extraordinary return of Mr. Jessen of 37 Presley Street.
It is perhaps indiscreet of me to refer at so early a stage to this return of Jessen’s because, while taking exception to the theories put forward in ‘Forty Days of Terrorism’, I am not prepared to go into the evidence on which I base my theories.
The popular story is that one morning Mr. Jessen walked out of his house and demanded from the astonished milkman why he had omitted to leave his morning supply. Remembering that the disappearance of ‘Long’—perhaps it would be less confusing to call him the name by which he was known in Presley Street—had created an extraordinary sensation; that pictures of his house and the interior of his house had appeared in all the newspapers; that the newspaper crime experts had published columns upon columns of speculative theories; and that 37 Presley Street had for some weeks been the Mecca of the morbid minded, who, standing outside, stared at the unpretentious facade out of countenance for hours on end; you may imagine that the milkman legend had the exact journalistic touch that would appeal to a public whose minds had been trained by generations of magazine-story writers to just such denouement as this.
The truth is that Mr. Long, upon coming to life, went immediately to the Home Office and told his story to the Under Secretary. He did not drive up in a taxi, nor was he lifted out in a state of exhaustion as one newspaper had erroneously had it, but he arrived on the top of a motor omnibus, which passed the door, and was ushered into the Presence almost at once. When Mr. Long had told his story, he was taken to the Home Secretary himself, and the chief commissioner was sent for and came hurriedly from Scotland Yard, accompanied by Superintendent Falmouth. All this is made clear in Mr. Ashton’s book.
‘For some extraordinary reason,’ I quote the same authority, ‘Long, or Jessen, seems by means of documents in his possession to have explained to the satisfaction of the Home Secretary and the Police Authorities his own position in the matter, and moreover to have inspired the right hon. gentleman with these mysterious documents, that Mr. Ridgeway, so far from accepting the resignation that Jessen placed in his hands, reinstated him in his position.’
As to how two of these documents came to Jessen or to the Four Just Men, Mr. Ashton is very wisely silent, not attempting to solve a mystery that puzzled both the Quai d’Orsay and Petrograd.
For these two official forms, signed in the one case by the French President and in the other with the sprawling signature of Czar Nicholas, were supposed to be incorporated with other official memoranda in well-guarded national archives.
It was subsequent to Mr. Jessen’s visit to the Home Office that the discovery of the Garlby Mansions Tragedy was made, and I cannot do better than quote The Times since that journal, jealous of the appearance in its columns of any news of a sensational character, reduced the intelligence to its most constricted limits. Perhaps the Megaphone account might make better reading, but the space at my disposal will not allow of the inclusion in this book of the thirty-three columns of reading matter, headlines, portraits, and diagrammatic illustrations with which that enterprising journal served up particulars of the grisly horror to its readers. Thus, The Times:
Shortly after one o’clock yesterday afternoon and in consequence of information received, Superintendent Falmouth, of the Criminal Investigation Department, accompanied by Detective-Sergeants Boyle and Lawley, effected an entrance into No. 69, Carlby Mansions, occupied by the Countess Slienvitch, a young Russian lady of independent means. Lying on the floor were the bodies of three men who have since been identified as—
Lauder Bartholomew, aged 33, late of the Koondorp Mounted Rifles;
Rudolph Starque, aged 40, believed to be an Austrian and a prominent revolutionary propagandist;
Henri Delaye Francois, aged 36, a Frenchman, also believed to have been engaged in propaganda work.
The cause of death in the case of Bartholomew seems to be evident, but with the other two men, some doubt exists, and the police, who preserve an attitude of rigid reticence, will await the medical examination before making any statement.
One unusual feature of the case is understood to be contained in a letter found in the room, accepting, on behalf of an organization known as the Four Just Men, full responsibility for the killing of the two foreigners, and another, writes a correspondent, is the extraordinary structural damage to the room itself. The tenant, the Countess Slienvitch, had not, up to a late hour last night, been traced.
Superintendent Falmouth, standing in the centre of the room, from which most traces of the tragedy had been removed, was mainly concerned with the ‘structural damage’ that The Times so lightly passed over.
At his feet yawned a great square hole, and beneath, in the empty flat below, was a heap of plaster and laths and the debris of destruction.
‘The curious thing is, and it shows how thorough these men are,’ explained the superintendent to his companion, ‘that the first thing we found when we got there was a twenty-pound note pinned to the wall with a brief note in pencil saying that this was to pay the owner of the property for the damage.’
It may be added that by the express desire of the young man at his side he dispensed with all ceremony of speech.
Once or twice in speaking, he found himself on the verge of saying, ‘Your Highness’, but the young man was so kindly, and so quickly put the detective at his ease, that he overcame the feeling of annoyance that the arrival of the distinguished visitor with the letter from the commissioner had caused him, and became amiable.
‘Of course, I have an interest in all this,’ said the young man quietly; ‘these people, for some reason, have decided I am not fit to encumber the earth—’
‘What have you done to the Red Hundred, sir?’
The young man laughed.
‘Nothing. On the contrary,’ he added with a whimsical smile, ‘I have helped them.’
The detective remembered that this hereditary Prince of the Escorial bore a reputation for eccentricity.
With a suddenness that was confusing, the Prince turned with a smile on his lips.
‘You are thinking of my dreadful reputation?’
‘No, no!’ disclaimed the embarrassed Mr. Falmouth. ‘I—’
‘Oh, yes—I’ve done lots of things,’ said the other with a little laugh; ‘it’s in the blood—my illustrious cousin—’
‘I assure your Highness,’ said Falmouth impressively, ‘my reflections were not—er—reflections on yourself—there is a story that you have dabbled in socialism—but that, of course—’
‘Is perfe
ctly true,’ concluded the Prince calmly. He turned his attention to the hole in the floor.
‘Have you any theory?’ he asked.
The detective nodded.
‘It’s more than a theory—it’s knowledge—you see we’ve seen Jessen, and the threads of the story are all in hand.’
‘What will you do?’
‘Nothing,’ said the detective stolidly. ‘Hush up the inquest until we can lay the Four Just Men by the heels.’
‘And the manner of killing?’
‘That must be kept quiet,’ replied Falmouth emphatically. This conversation may furnish a clue as to the unprecedented conduct of the police at the subsequent inquest.
In the little coroner’s court, there was accommodation for three pressmen and some fifty of the general public. Without desiring in any way to cast suspicion upon the cleanest police force in the world, I can only state that the jury were remarkably well disciplined, that the general public found the body of the court so densely packed with broad-shouldered men that they were unable to obtain admission. As to the press, the confidential circular had done its work, and the three shining lights of journalism that occupied the reporters’ desk were careful to carry out instructions.
The proceedings lasted a very short time, a verdict, ‘…some person or persons unknown,’ was recorded, and another London mystery was added (I quote from the Evening News) to the already alarming and formidable list of unpunished crimes.
Charles Garrett was one of the three journalists admitted to the inquest, and after it was all over, he confronted Falmouth.
‘Look here, Falmouth,’ he said pugnaciously, ‘what’s the racket?’ Falmouth, having reason to know, and to an extent stand in awe of, the little man, waggled his head darkly.
‘Oh, rot!’ said Charles rudely. ‘Don’t be so disgustingly mysterious—why aren’t we allowed to say these chaps died—?’
‘Have you seen Jessen?’ asked the detective.
‘I have,’ said Charles bitterly, ‘and after what I’ve done for that man, after I’ve put his big feet on the rungs of culture—’
‘Wouldn’t he speak?’ asked Falmouth innocently.
‘He was as close,’ said Charles sadly, ‘as the inside washer of a vacuum pump.’
‘H’m!’ the detective was considering. Sooner or later, the connection must occur to Charles, and he was the only man who would be likely to surprise Jessen’s secret. Better that the journalist should know now.
‘If I were you,’ said Falmouth quietly, ‘I shouldn’t worry Jessen; you know what he is and in what capacity he serves the Government. Come along with me.’
He did not speak a word in reply to the questions Charles put until they passed through the showy portals of Carlby Mansions and a lift had deposited them at the door of the flat.
Falmouth opened the door with a key, and Charles went into the flat at his heels.
He saw the hole in the floor.
‘This wasn’t mentioned at the inquest,’ he said, ‘but what’s this to do with Jessen?’
He looked up at the detective in perplexity, then a light broke upon him and he whistled.
‘Well, I’m—’ he said, then he added softly—‘But what does the Government say to this?’
‘The Government,’ said Falmouth in his best official manner, smoothing the nap of his hat the while—‘the Government regard the circumstances as unusual, but they have accepted the situation with great philosophy.’
That night Mr. Long (or Jessen) reappeared at the Guild as though nothing whatever had happened and addressed his audience for half an hour on the subject of ‘Do burglars make good caretakers?’
CHAPTER VIII.
An Incident in the Fight
FROM WHAT SECRET PLACE in the metropolis the Woman of Gratz reorganized her forces we shall never know; whence came her strength of purpose and her unbounded energy we can guess. With Starque’s death, she became virtually and actually the leader of the Red Hundred, and from every corner of Europe came reinforcements of men and money to strengthen her hand and to re-establish the shaking prestige of the most powerful association that Anarchism had ever known.
Great Britain had ever been immune from the active operations of the anarchist. It had been the sanctuary of the revolutionary for centuries, and Anarchism had hesitated to jeopardize the security of refugees by carrying on its propaganda on British soil. That the extremists of the movement had chafed under the restriction is well-known, and when the Woman of Gratz openly declared war on England, she was acclaimed enthusiastically.
Then followed perhaps the most extraordinary duels that the world had ever seen. Two powerful bodies, both outside the pale of the law, fought rapidly, mercilessly, asking no quarter and giving none. And the eerie thing about it all was that no man saw the agents of either of the combatants. It was as though two spirit forces were engaged in some titanic combat. The police were almost helpless. The fight against the Red Hundred was carried on, almost single-handedly, by the Four Just Men, or, to give them the title with which they signed their famous proclamation, ‘The Council of Justice’…
Since the days of the Fenian scare, London had never lived under the terror that the Red Hundred inspired. Never a day passed but preparations for some outrage were discovered, the most appalling of which was the attempt on the Tube Railway. If I refer to them as ‘attempts’, and if the repetition of that word wearies the reader, it is because, thanks to the extraordinary vigilance of the Council of Justice, they were no more.
‘This sort of thing cannot go on,’ said the Home Secretary petulantly at a meeting of the heads of the police. ‘Here we have admittedly the finest police force in the world, and we must needs be under obligation to men for whom warrants exist on a charge of murder!’
The chief commissioner was sufficiently harassed and was inclined to resent the criticism in the minister’s voice.
‘We’ve done everything that can be done, sir,’ he said shortly; ‘if you think my resignation would help you out of the difficulty—’
‘Now for heaven’s sake, don’t be a fool,’ pleaded the Home Secretary in his best unparliamentary manner. ‘Cannot you see—’
‘I can see that no harm has been done so far,’ said the commissioner doggedly, then he burst forth:
‘Look here, sir! Our people have very often to employ characters a jolly sight worse than the Four Just Men—if we don’t employ them, we exploit them. Mean little sneak-thieves, “narks” they call ’em, old lags, burglars—and once or twice, something worse. We are here to protect the public; so long as the public is being protected, nobody can kick—’
‘But it is not you who are protecting the public—you get your information—’
‘From the Council of Justice, that is so; but where it comes from doesn’t matter. Now listen to me, sir.’
He was very earnest and emphasized his remarks with little raps on the desk.
‘Get the Prince of the Escorial out of the country,’ he said seriously. ‘I’ve got information that the Reds are after his blood. No, I haven’t been warned by the Just Men; that’s the queer part about it. I’ve got it straight from a man who’s selling me information. I shall see him tonight if they haven’t butchered him.’
‘But the Prince is our guest.’
‘He’s been here too long,’ said the practical and unsentimental commissioner. ‘Let him go back to Spain—he’s to be married in a month; let him go home and buy his trousseau or whatever he buys.’
‘Is that a confession that you cannot safeguard him?’
The commissioner looked vexed.
‘I could safeguard a child of six or a staid gentleman of sixty, but I cannot be responsible for a young man who insists on seeing London without a guide, who takes solitary motorcar drives, and refuses to give us any information beforehand as to his plans for the day—or if he does, breaks them!’
The minister was pacing the apartment with his head bent in thought.
‘A
s to the Prince of the Escorial,’ he said presently, ‘advice has already been conveyed to his Highness—from the highest quarter—to make his departure at an early date. Tonight, indeed, is his last night in London.’
The Commissioner of Police made an extravagant demonstration of relief.
‘He’s going to the Auditorium tonight,’ he said, rising. He spoke a little pityingly, and, indeed, the Auditorium, although a very first-class music hall, had a slight reputation. ‘I shall have a dozen men in the house, and we’ll have his motorcar at the stage door at the end of the show.’
That night, his Highness arrived promptly at eight o’clock and stood chatting pleasantly with the bare-headed manager in the vestibule. Then he went alone to his box and sat down in the shadow of the red velvet curtain.
Punctually at eight there arrived two other gentlemen, also in evening dress. Antonio Selleni was one and Karl Ollmanns was the other. They were both young men, and before they left the motorcar, they completed their arrangement.
‘You will occupy the box on the opposite side, but I will endeavour to enter the box. If I succeed—it will be finished. The knife is best,’ there was pride in the Italian’s tone.
‘If I cannot reach him, the honour will be yours.’ He had the stilted manner of the young Latin. The other man grunted. He replied in halting French.
‘Once I shot an egg from between fingers—so,’ he said.
They made their entry separately.
In the manager’s office, Superintendent Falmouth relieved the tedium of waiting by reading the advertisements in an evening newspaper.
To him came the manager with a message that under no circumstances was his Highness in Box A to be disturbed until the conclusion of the performance.
In the meantime, Signor Selleni made a cautious way to Box A. He found the road clear, turned the handle softly, and stepped quickly into the dark interior of the box.
