The Crime Club

by Frank Froest

  ‘Yes, it’s grand weather,’ admitted the detective, and with that concession to conversation he got to business. ‘Say, can you turn me out as a doctor in half an hour? That’s all the time I can give you. I want something weather-proof and fool-proof—something that isn’t obvious. I won’t have a false beard. You know the kind of thing I mean.’

  The costumier measured him with a professional glance. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘I can make you so that your own mother won’t know you.’

  The art of disguise—especially facial disguise—is one that is very rarely used by officers attached to the Criminal Investigation Department. There is indeed a make-up room at Scotland Yard where men may transform themselves into anything from coal-heavers to guardsmen, but it is used only when the ordinary attire and manner of the detective would be so entirely out of keeping with his surroundings as to attract attention. A dirty muffler, unshaven face, and corduroys work a transformation more difficult of detection than the most cunning use of grease-paint and wigs.

  It is only when an officer is to be brought into personal contact with some who knows him, and by whom it is essential he should not be recognised, that he goes to the extreme and very risky length of altering his face.

  Allinford was critical and exacting while expert hands transformed him. When the disguise was complete, he examined himself with the mirror and gave a grunt of approval. His grey, drooping moustache had become well waxed and auburn, with pointed ends. His scanty hair also had a tinge of the same colour, and had been brushed so that it appeared twice as luxuriant as it was in reality. A razor and dye had worked wonders with his eyebrows. He wore his own clothes and was as neat as ever, but it would have needed keen eyes to detect any likeness to the man who had entered the establishment.

  ‘Yes; I think that ought to do,’ he commented.

  Unless a person were keenly observant or suspicious, he would be very unlikely to guess that the front door of 704 Granville Street, Piccadilly, had not been out of sight of officers of police for six or seven days.

  It was a quiet house, solid-looking and respectable—a residence which would not have shamed a Cabinet Minister. A luxurious motor-brougham had just driven away when Allinford walked briskly up the broad stone steps and pressed the bell. The door swung smoothly back, and a ponderous footman, in olive-green livery, confronted him.

  The detective fingered a card. ‘Will you take this to Mr Glenston, please. Mr Roberts, a friend of mine, suggested I might call.’

  Now Roberts is a fairly common name. That is why Allinford had used it. He knew that the house had many visitors, and it was possible that a Roberts might be among them, or, alternately, that the occupant might not feel certain that he had not a client named Roberts. On the card the footman read:

  AUDREY LATIMER, M.D.

  GREAT SOUTHERN HOSPITAL

  His eyes wandered from the card to its owner, in a measured scrutiny that might have seemed offensive had not Allinford been prepared for it. He met the look with bland arrogance.

  ‘Very good, sir,’ said the man. ‘Will you come this way?’

  He ushered the detective into a reception-room furnished in keeping with the solid character of the house, and left him. For ten minutes Allinford waited, drumming his fingers on his knee. He knew very well what was happening, but he had taken precautions. When he had assumed the name and title of a hospital doctor, he had arranged that the hospital authorities should not betray him. If the muscular footman with the inquisitive eyes was ringing up the Great Southern Hospital to verify the visitor’s identity, he would soon be satisfied.

  He returned in a little. ‘It is all right, sir. Will you walk upstairs—the first door on the right. It’s rather early now. Most people drop in after dinner or during the afternoon.’

  ‘I expect I shall find something to amuse me,’ said Allinford, and while the man held open the door, he passed out and up the thickly-carpeted stairway.

  There were a dozen or more people in the room which the servant had indicated. It was a big apartment, and its furniture and fittings were rather those of a club than of a private house. Prominent at one end was a kind of bar partly shielded by curtains, and with two or three small tables in front of it. Some of them were occupied. One woman—she was scarcely more than a girl—with delicate tinted complexion was drinking tea with an older companion of her own sex, a soft-faced woman with a heavy jaw.

  A little group of men were clustered around another table, laughing and chatting, but their drink was not tea. In the body of the room was a large roulette table at which the croupier sat idle in his high-backed chair. Nearer the window half a dozen men and women were seated round a chemin-de-fer table, watching the dealer.

  Decidedly it was a slack time of day. There was none of that hectic excitement which the picturesque writer about West End gambling dens loves to depict. It was all very decorous. As Allinford moved up to the baccarat, one man signalled to the waiter and scribbled a cheque. The detective noted the amount with an inward gasp. It was for five hundred pounds.

  He observed Verndale among the group at the bar and moved towards them. Refreshments—even to the most costly of wines—were free. But he contented himself with a modest cup of tea. He wanted to keep his head clear.

  ‘Yes,’ Verndale was saying, in his arrogant, dogmatic way, ‘baccarat’s all very well to a point, but I’d nearly as soon play pitch-and-toss. It’s a children’s game. Give me poker—or auction bridge, for that matter—something with more life in it.’

  One of the group—a tall young man with a weak chin and a scrubby tooth-brush moustache—grinned feebly. ‘There’s life in your poker, Verndale.’

  ‘You ought to know,’ chuckled a second man. ‘For my part, I’d sooner buck against him at poker than auction. There’s a little woman who’s paid for her bridge lessons—eh, Verndale?’

  Verndale frowned. The last hint seemed to have touched a sore point. ‘That’s enough, Devine!’ he said curtly. Then, more amiably: ‘You can’t afford to be chivalrous in a card-game, you know; there’s a difference between sportsmanship and quixotry. Most women are fools. If they had the sense to stick to a pure gamble—something where no skill is required—they would sometimes win. Talking about poker, I’m willing to sit in. But we can’t play here. Suppose you people come up to my rooms. How many of us are there—four? Five would make a better game.’

  His gaze rested on Allinford only for a moment. The detective was quick to see the invitation. ‘I should be happy to sit in, if you will allow me,’ he said. ‘My name is Latimer.’ He proffered a card.

  Verndale bowed. ‘Pleased to know you, Dr Latimer. My name is Verndale. Let me introduce Lord Tiverley, Sir Richard Hopville, Mr Granger. Well, we might as well have some taxies.’

  ‘He thinks he’s roped a new mug,’ meditated Allinford.

  Verndale indeed seemed to have taken a fancy to the stranger. He insisted on the doctor’s sharing his cab, while the other three took a second vehicle. By the time they reached the Durbar Hotel, the two might have been, judging from their manner, the friends of a lifetime.

  The game began slowly enough, but Allinford had fears that the ten pounds with which he had provided himself would not go far. He played cautiously. Hopville, the weak-chinned young man, was the plunger of the party. His futile attempts at bluff, at times, awoke the derision of the others. Verndale seemed to be feeling his feet. The detective judged him to be measuring the game of the others. He was winning a trifle.

  He was a lavish host too, for a servant was continually filling up glasses at a side-table; but it was noticeable that he himself drank little.

  Allinford had lost five pounds, and he was still no further advanced than when they had begun. He bit his lip. All his plans depended upon his proving Verndale to be a cheat, and yet, to all appearances, the man was playing honestly enough. The worst of it was that he might go on playing honestly. The skilled cheat most often only falls upon unfair methods in a game like poker when
luck runs against him. While it holds he is content with his expert knowledge of the straight game.

  As the game warmed up, Hopville’s luck turned. He took risks; he broke every law of the safe game. Yet he won. He seemed able to do nothing wrong. The stack of chips in front of him mounted higher and higher, and he grinned inanely over his cards. Verndale too was losing. Allinford’s small capital ebbed away until only a sovereign was left. He sat tense and watchful.

  ‘Now, Doctor,’ said Verndale, smiling as he picked up the cards, ‘I am going to give you a real royal flush. Just keep your eye on me.’ He dealt slowly.

  As the last card fell from his fingers, Allinford suddenly rose, reached across the table, and wrenched away the pack. ‘One moment, gentlemen!’ he cried. ‘Hold your hands!’

  Verndale’s chair overturned with a crash, as he leaped to his feet. ‘What the devil do you mean?’ he demanded. His white hands were opening and shutting, and his face was flushed. ‘Are you making any suggestion against anyone present?’

  ‘I am!’ said the detective sharply. ‘Sit down!’

  ‘You’re a liar!’ stormed Verndale. ‘Get out of my house or I’ll have you thrown out.’

  ‘I think not,’ said Allinford quietly. ‘I should advise you to sit still till I have finished. Gentlemen, the cards are marked! You, Mr Granger, hold a pair of aces, a pair of fours, and the king of diamonds. You, Lord Tiverley, have the four of clubs, one knave, four, three, and the deuce of spades. Sir Richard Hopville has three queens. Mr Verndale, I observe, has dropped his hand on the floor, and as I am not quite expert enough to have read them, except slowly, I can’t tell you what they were. My own are a pair of knaves, the three of diamonds, six of spades, and the seven of hearts.’

  ‘We’ve got a blessed conjurer!’ laughed Sir Richard Hopville.

  No one paid him any attention. Granger and Tiverley turned their cards face upwards and looked gravely from Allinford to Verndale. The latter was breathing heavily. He tried to laugh.

  ‘You know me, Granger,’ he said; ‘so do you, Tiverley, and you, Hopville. I don’t quite know what this man’s idea is, but it looks like blackmail. If the cards are marked, he has managed to introduce them himself. Why,’—he brought his fist down on the table to emphasise his remark,—‘I’ve lost money myself.’

  ‘That’s true!’ said Hopville. ‘A pot!’

  ‘Before we go any further,’ said Allinford, ‘I may explain that I am a police officer. That will dispose of any question of blackmail. Perhaps you will hold a card to the light, Lord Tiverley. Thank you. You will notice a small spot near the top left-hand corner. Now put the card down. That spot has gone. It looks like an optical illusion, doesn’t it? You could be told the cards were marked and search for a week if you didn’t know what to look for. You will find that spot in a different position on each card, according to the suit and value. The person who marked them had a full acquaintance with the virtues of aniline dye. An expert could read them as they were dealt as easily as though they were face upwards. He could do more than that, with a little experience. He could deal any hand he wished to any person at the table.’

  Tiverley towered over Verndale.

  ‘I think I’ve heard enough,’ he said. ‘I ought to have been less simple. I am obliged to you, Mr—er—er—?’

  ‘Allinford,’ said the detective.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Allinford. I assume—ah’—he paused, embarrassed—‘I assume you are not acting in your professional capacity—that is, I shall not be required to give evidence.’

  ‘I hope not, my lord. Indeed, I may say I think it unlikely.’

  Verndale pushed out a detaining hand. ‘You don’t really believe this preposterous thing? It’s so utterly ridiculous.’

  Lord Tiverley brushed by him, with head erect, and Granger followed. Hopville sprawled, with his arms over the card-table. ‘’Pon my soul,’ he ejaculated, ‘it’s like a scene out of a melodrama. A stage detective and all!’

  ‘Including the wicked baronet,’ retorted Allinford quickly. ‘You may drop your pose, if you please, Sir Richard. This is serious, and you will be wise to recognise it. Do you think your change of luck was not noticeable directly a new pack of cards was introduced?’

  Hopville sat upright. ‘So he’s in it too, is he?’ sneered Verndale. ‘Look here, Mr Detective, we’ve had quite enough. I don’t suppose you’re a rich man but it will take every penny you’ve got when I commence an action for slander. You’ve wormed your way in here in disguise, and you’ve accused me of card-sharping. Now go—if you’ve finished!’

  Allinford moved to the door, turned the key, and thrust it in his pocket. ‘I haven’t quite,’ he said coolly. ‘Now listen to me.’ He pulled out his watch. ‘It’s now ten minutes to nine. At nine o’clock a police raid will be made on 704 Granville Street, and certain people will be charged with assisting to run a gambling-house. Now there’s nothing on earth that can prevent you two being charged as proprietors. Don’t trouble to deny it. There will be plenty of evidence. The place has been watched for days. I don’t suppose a fine of a few hundreds—which is what it will probably amount to—will affect you much but if you’re wise you’ll come off your pedestals and listen to plain sense. There’s another charge it may be in my power to prefer—receiving stolen goods.’

  ‘Go on!’ laughed Verndale. ‘Accuse us of murder while you’re at it.’

  ‘Oh, very well,’ said Allinford nonchalantly, ‘only you may as well know that the jewels you had from Lady Helton were not her property. They were stolen from her husband, and a bogus robbery arranged to account for their absence.’

  To casual observers, Verndale’s appearance remained unchanged, but a slight distension of the nostrils showed Allinford that his shot had told. ‘I do not admit that I had the necklace from Lady Helton,’ he said.

  ‘Come,’ said Allinford bluntly, ‘you’re not such a fool as you’d wish me to think. Would you expect a jury to believe that? Lady Helton has been at Granville Street day after day for weeks on end. She had an ample allowance for all ordinary purposes. She made over the jewels to you either as a payment or as security for a gambling debt. If she didn’t, it’s worse for you, for you had stolen goods in your possession for which you can’t account. You must remember you signed an exact description of the jewels.’

  Hopville whistled a tune. Verndale laid his head on his hands and stared thoughtfully into space. ‘You’ve got me in a corner,’ he admitted. ‘What is it you want me to do?’

  ‘I want you to return the necklace,’ said Allinford. ‘No,’—as Verndale would have spoken,—‘don’t trouble to put up another bluff. It’s easy enough to see what’s happened. Lady Helton wanted the jewels returned so that she might wear them tonight. You refused, and, fearful that she would become a nuisance in the future, arranged that they should be apparently stolen. Unluckily for you, she had the same idea of a bogus robbery. Now—’

  ‘If I give it up, will you promise me nothing further shall be done?’

  ‘I can’t promise. The gambling-house prosecution will go forward in any case. If the necklace is returned, however, I doubt if Sir Rupert Helton will prosecute.’

  Verndale rose, crossed the room, and, unlocking the secretary, took out a red morocco case which he placed in the hands of the detective.

  ‘Yes, sir,’—Allinford was speaking to Menzies,—‘luck and bluff carried it through. When I heard that the Helton robbery was bogus, I began to get a glimmering, because I had picked up a marked card in Verndale’s rooms. Then, when I heard he had gone to Granville Street, I began to be sure, more especially as Lady Helton had been seen there. The games in the gambling-house were straight enough—it wouldn’t have paid to run anything crooked—but Hopville and Verndale used to pick up likely young fools there and carry them off to Verndale’s rooms.

  ‘I’ll own Hopville had me guessing, at first. He looked a regular pigeon—instead of which he was a rook. Of course, it wouldn’t have done for Verndale
to have won heavily at his own place. But no one was likely to suppose him in with Hopville. As soon as I was sure, I shook them up with my composure. After that I bluffed for all I was worth, and they fell into it.’

  ‘I see by the papers,’ said Menzies inconsequently, ‘that Sir Rupert and Lady Helton are going abroad for a protracted period.’

  ‘Exactly!’ smiled Allinford.

  IX

  THE GOAT

  BIG RUFE DEVLIN and Goat O’Brien moved on different planes of the criminal hierarchy. There was all the difference of status between them that there is between an ambitious curate and an archbishop. For while Rufe was merely a sneak thief of parts, the Goat was one of the potentates of crime with a fat bank balance and little fear of the police. Yet Rufe it was …

  You might have passed the Goat a hundred times in the street without giving him a second glance. He was a slim-built, slouched-shouldered little man of seventy, with a trim grey beard and a deprecating manner, who wore well-made clothes untidily. His record ran back through fifty years of subtle and audacious rascality in three continents. Now, in his old age, he had promoted himself from the executive to the less risky but more profitable administrative side of crime. He was, in fact, a receiver, and it was the misfortune of the Criminal Investigation Department that he should have settled down to exercise his talents in London.

  It is only in books that a man of the Goat’s reputation can avoid the suspicions of the police. And O’Brien, who knew every trick on the board, had no illusions on the subject. He knew that time and again the keenest men of the C.I.D. had taken the warpath against him only to retire at last baffled and chagrined, with the futile headache which comes from battering brains against a stone wall. He knew that the department had sworn to have his scalp, and at times he would smile grimly into his little grey beard. They might know he was at the back of half a dozen burglaries, not only in London but in Paris and Amsterdam, that his money had provided the resources, that his brains had planned the coup, that his fingers dipped deeply into the proceeds; but juries require concrete proofs, and proofs were just what were lacking.