The Terror

by Edgar Wallace

‘What is this supposed to be?’ He tapped the knife.

  ‘It’s a knife I brought back from South America,’ said Louis immediately. ‘I had a ranch there.’

  ‘Is it yours?’

  Louis nodded.

  ‘There were two in this belt,’ he said. ‘Where is the other?’

  ‘We lost it.’ Inez spoke quickly. ‘Louis lost it. We haven’t had it for quite a long time—we’ve never had it in this house.’

  Elk ran his finger along the belt.

  ‘There’s dust here. There ought to be dust inside this empty frog,’ he said. ‘If the story is true and there has been no knife here for a long time, the inside would be thick with dust. On the other hand, if your story isn’t true, there was a knife here today—’

  He rubbed the inside of the leather and showed his finger practically speckless.

  ‘I dusted it myself this morning,’ said Inez, and Elk smiled at her admiringly.

  ‘Mrs Landor!’ he said in reproach.

  ‘Well, I’ve got to tell the truth,’ she said desperately. ‘You want the truth, don’t you?’

  She was on the verge of hysteria, near to the breaking-point which would leave her morally and physically shattered.

  ‘You’re not entitled to draw inferences without my offering some explanation. God Almighty! Haven’t I suffered enough through that man!’

  ‘Which man?’ asked Bray sharply.

  She was silent.

  ‘Which man, Mrs Landor?’

  Louis Landor at any rate had recovered his self-possession.

  ‘My wife isn’t quite herself tonight,’ he said. ‘I have been out rather late and she got rather worried about me.’

  ‘Now what’s the use of making a mystery of something that’s perfectly clear?’ asked Elk.

  He was almost sad as he contemplated the futility of unnecessary evasion.

  ‘Your wife knew Donald Bateman?’

  Louis did not answer.

  ‘I’m going to be perfectly frank with you. I told you we were inquiring into the murder of this man. That is our duty as police officers. We’re not asking you or your wife or anybody else who is the murderer of Donald Bateman. Understand that right, Mr Landor. The only person we want is the murderer of this man! The people we don’t want are those who didn’t murder him, even though they know something of him. If either or both of you are responsible, I, my chief and the whole damned crowd of us at Scotland Yard will work night and day to bring you to the Old Bailey! That’s treating you square. If you’re not guilty, we’ll do all we can to clear you. The only thing you can give us for the moment is the truth.’

  ‘We’ve told the truth,’ said Inez breathlessly.

  ‘No, you haven’t.’ Elk shook his head. ‘I didn’t quite expect you would. The truth in every case like this is hidden under a heap of rubbishy lies. What are you hiding up, Mrs Landor? It all comes down to that. You’re hiding something and your husband’s hiding something, that maybe doesn’t matter ten loud hoots.’

  ‘I’m hiding nothing,’ she said.

  ‘You knew Donald Bateman?’

  ‘I don’t remember him,’ she said quickly.

  ‘You knew Donald Bateman.’ Elk was infinitely patient, and when she shook her head he put his hand slowly into his inside pocket. ‘Well, I don’t want to give you an unpleasant experience, Mrs Landor, but I’ve a photograph of this man—a flashlight picture taken after his death.’

  She reeled back, her hands out-thrust.

  ‘I won’t look at it! I won’t! It’s beastly…you’re not allowed to show me things like that…I won’t see it!’

  Louis’s arm was round her, his cheek was against hers. He said something to her in an undertone, something which momentarily calmed her. Then he stretched out his hand to the detective.

  ‘Perhaps I could identify this man,’ he said. ‘I know most of my wife’s friends.’

  Elk took from his pocket an envelope, and from this drew a positive that was still damp. It was not a pretty picture, but the hand which held the photograph did not tremble.

  ‘Yes, my wife knew this man ten years ago, when she was a girl of seventeen,’ said Louis.

  ‘When did you last see him?’ asked Bray.

  Louis Landor thought.

  ‘A few years ago.’

  ‘He only arrived in England last week,’ said Bray coldly.

  ‘He may have come to England every year, for all you know,’ said Louis with a faint smile. ‘No, I saw his photograph.’

  ‘What did he call himself in those days, Mrs Landor?’

  She was more composed now, her voice under control.

  ‘I knew him as Donald. He was just—an acquaintance.’

  She heard Elk’s murmured expostulation.

  ‘Surely, Mrs Landor, you’re not telling us the gospel truth, are you?’ he asked. ‘Just now you told us you’d “suffered enough from this man”. You can’t suffer very deeply through any man whose name you couldn’t remember except as Donald.’

  She did not answer.

  ‘Can you, Mrs Landor? You’re not going to tell us? He was a very close friend, wasn’t he?’

  She drew a long breath.

  ‘I suppose he was. It’s not a thing I want to talk about—’

  ‘Inez! I’m not going to allow these people to think—’

  Elk interrupted him.

  ‘Never mind what we think, Mr Landor. Nothing’s going to shock us—not me, at any rate. You knew this man before you met your husband, I suppose, or was it after?’

  ‘It was before,’ she replied.

  ‘Was he anything—to you?’

  Elk found difficulty in putting the matter delicately. He saw the man’s face go red and white.

  ‘You’re being damned offensive, aren’t you?’ Louis was glowering at him.

  Elk shook his head wearily.

  ‘That’s just what I’m not being. A man has been murdered tonight, Landor—and I’m anxious to put the murderer under lock and key, and it’s only possible to put him under lock and key by asking all sorts of innocent people offensive questions. And when you come to think of it, there’s nothing quite so offensive as stabbing a man to the heart and leaving him stiff on the paving-stones of Tidal Basin. It’s a lousy place to die. Personally, I should be very much offended if it happened to me, and I’d regard any questions similar to those I am asking as being in the nature of a bouquet—in comparison. Did you know Donald Bateman was in town?’ He addressed Inez.

  ‘No,’ she answered.

  Bray interjected impatiently.

  ‘Do you mean to tell us you didn’t know that he was in London three or four days ago?’

  ‘No!’ Her tone was defiant.

  ‘Mrs Landor,’ said Elk, ‘you’ve been very unhappy this last day or two; your servant told us all about it. Servants will talk, and they love a little domestic tragedy.’

  ‘I’ve not been well,’ she said.

  ‘Is it because you’ve seen Donald Bateman, the man from whom you suffered?’

  ‘No,’ she replied.

  ‘Nor you?’ asked Bray.

  ‘No,’ answered Louis.

  ‘Tonight, for instance?’ suggested Elk. ‘You haven’t seen Donald Bateman or the man so described?’

  ‘No,’ said Louis.

  ‘Have you been in the neighbourhood of Tidal Basin tonight?’ asked Elk. ‘Before you answer that, I must caution you to be very careful how you reply.’

  ‘No.’

  Elk took a slip of paper from his pocket,

  ‘I’m going to ask you a question, Landor, which I’d like you to consider before you answer. In the pocket of the man known as Donald Bateman were found two one-hundred-pound notes, indicator number 33/O 11878 and 33/O 11879. They were new notes, recently issued from the Maida Vale Branch of the Midland Bank. Can you tell me anything about these banknotes?’

  He was silent.

  ‘Can you, Mrs Landor?’

  ‘I don’t know anything about the
numbers of banknotes—’ she began desperately.

  ‘That’s not what we’re asking,’ said Bray sternly. ‘Have you given or sent to any person during the past week two banknotes each for a hundred pounds?’

  ‘They come from my account,’ said Louis quietly. ‘I suppose I’d better tell the truth. We did know Donald Bateman was back in London. He wrote to us and said he was in great distress, and asked me for the loan of two hundred pounds.’

  ‘I see,’ nodded Bray. ‘You sent them to his address in Norfolk Street by letter post?’

  Louis nodded.

  ‘Did he acknowledge receipt of the money?’

  ‘No,’ said Louis.

  ‘He didn’t even call to thank you?’

  ‘No,’ said Inez.

  She spoke a little too quickly.

  ‘You’re not going to tell us the truth, either of you.’ Elk’s voice was rather sad. ‘Not the truth about this man or this money or your visit to Tidal Basin. You’ve a bruise on your face—been fighting?’

  ‘No, I hit it against a cupboard door.’

  ‘Your wife said you fell down,’ said Elk drearily, ‘but it doesn’t matter. Why do you keep these knives here?’ He picked up the belt and dangled it in his hand.

  ‘Why does he keep these saddles on the wall?’ asked Inez impatiently. ‘Be reasonable, please. They are prizes he got at a rodeo in the Argentine.’

  ‘For what?’ asked Bray.

  ‘It was a knife-throwing competition—’ began Louis, and stopped.

  ‘Hiding up!’ groaned Elk. ‘Get your coat on, Landor!’

  Inez Landor darted to him and caught him frantically by the arm.

  ‘You’re not going to take him away?’

  ‘I’m taking you both away,’ said Elk cheerfully, ‘but only to Scotland Yard. You’ll have to see Mr Mason, but you needn’t worry. He’s a very sympathetic man—even more sympathetic than Mr Bray.’

  There was a touch of malignity in this thrust which Bray did not observe.

  She did not go into the bedroom with her husband; her own coat was lying on the back of a chair. She had quite forgotten that fact—saw now the absurdity of the reading-lamp, the sewing and the book whilst this raincoat of hers testified mutely to her wanderings.

  Louis came back in a very short space of time and helped her into the leather jacket.

  ‘It’s all right, we’ve got a police car downstairs; you needn’t bother about a taxi,’ said Bray, in answer to his inquiry.

  He was a little huffy, being conscious that whatever result had been achieved brought him little personal kudos.

  ‘I shan’t want you to come with me, Elk,’ he said shortly. ‘You can help shove these people into the car and then you can come back and search the flat. Would you like to see the warrant?’ he asked.

  Louis shook his head.

  ‘There’s nothing in the flat that I object to your seeing,’ he said, and pointed to the little escritoire. ‘There’s about three thousand pounds in that drawer, and railway tickets. I was leaving the country tomorrow with my wife. Give Mr—?’

  ‘Elk’s my name.’

  ‘Give Mr Elk the keys, Inez.’

  Without a word she handed the case to Elk.

  As they walked through the door of the flat Bray put out his hand and switched off the light. He was a domesticated man with a taste for economy, and he acted instinctively.

  ‘Save your light, Mrs Landor,’ he apologised for his action.

  The door closed and the sound of their movement grew fainter to the listening man who stood behind the locked door of the maid’s room. He came out noiselessly, a dark figure, a black felt hat pulled down over his eyes, his face hidden behind a white mask.

  Quickly he went to the desk, took something out of his pocket; there was the sound of breaking wood and the drawer slid out. A small pocket torch revealed what he sought, and he thrust money, passport and tickets into his pocket. He had hardly done so before he heard the detective returning, and moved swiftly towards the door. He was standing in its shadow when it opened. Elk’s back was towards him when he heard a slight sound, and turned quickly. Not quickly enough. For the fraction of a second he glimpsed the white-faced thing, and then something struck him and he went down like a log.

  White Face stooped, dragged the inanimate figure a little way from the door so that it would open, and a second later had slipped out of the flat, leaving the door ajar.

  He ran up one flight of stairs, passed through an open window and went swiftly down a narrow iron stairway which brought him to the courtyard. There was no guard here, as he knew.

  Ten minutes later one of the detectives waiting outside the house went upstairs to proffer his assistance to Elk. He heard a groan and, pushing the door open, found the sergeant in his least amiable mood.

  CHAPTER XII

  SUPERINTENDENT MASON boasted that he could sleep anywhere at any time. He certainly needed a considerable amount of rousing when the police car reached Scotland Yard.

  As for Michael Quigley, he had never felt less sleepy in his life, and the coffee which was brought to the superintendent’s room was as a stimulant quite unnecessary. It brought Mr Mason to irritable life.

  His complaint was that, at whatever hour of the day or night he arrived at Scotland Yard, he was certain to find some official document waiting for his attention. There were half a dozen minutes warningly inscribed and heavily sealed.

  ‘They can wait till the morning.’ He examined the two or three telephone messages that were on his desk, but they told him nothing new. There was no news from Bray. It was a quarter of an hour later that Elk and his superior had their interview with the Landors.

  Michael looked at his watch. It was too late to go to bed. He wanted to see Janice early in the morning.

  ‘You can call back and I’ll tell you anything that’s going,’ said Mason. ‘About that ring, Michael: I’m afraid we shall have to have a little talk with the young lady. I’ll make it as pleasant as possible. Maybe you can arrange for us to meet—I don’t want to bring her down to the Yard, because that would rattle her.’

  Michael was grateful for this concession. Ever since he had told Mason the truth about the ring, a dull little shadow of worry had rested in his mind.

  ‘You’re a pretty nice man for a policeman, Mason.’

  ‘I’m a pretty nice man for any kind of job,’ said the superintendent.

  Michael strolled out on to the Embankment and up through Northumberland Avenue. He had reached Trafalgar Square and was standing at the corner of the Strand, wondering whether it would be sensible to go home and snatch a few hours’ sleep, or whether to call at his club, which was open till four o’clock, when a taxicab went rapidly past him in the direction of the Admiralty gate. Midnight taxicabs either crawl or fly, and this one was moving quickly—not so swift, however, that he did not glimpse a familiar figure sitting on the box, a pipe clenched between his teeth. If he had been moving more slowly Michael would have hailed old Gregory Wicks.

  ‘Did you want a cab, Mr Quigley?’

  It was a policeman by his side; Michael was fairly well known to this division.

  ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘I thought you were trying to stop that driver. They take liberties, those fellows.’

  Michael laughed.

  ‘That was an old friend of mine. I suppose you know him—old Gregory Wicks?’

  ‘Gregory, eh?’ The policeman was a middle-aged man who knew his West End extremely well. ‘The old fellow’s getting about again. I hadn’t seen him for months till I saw him the other night sleeping on his box at the corner of Orange Street. He lost a good fare that night. I wanted him to take Mr Gasso down to Scotland Yard to make a statement—I was in that case,’ he added a little proudly.

  Chance policemen encountered in the middle of the night can be very talkative, and Michael was in no mood for conversation. But the mention of Gasso arrested his attention.

  ‘You were in what case?’


  ‘The Howdah case. You know, the night they held up Mrs What’s-her-name—Duval or something, and pinched her diamond chain. Naturally my name hasn’t been mentioned because the case has never been into court, but I was on point duty near the Howdah Club when the robbery occurred. If anybody had screamed, or I’d heard ’em scream, I’d have been on the spot in a second. It only shows you what chances you miss because people won’t behave sensibly.’

  Michael gathered that behaving sensibly was synonymous with screaming violently.

  ‘Old Gregory was about here that night, was he?’

  ‘He had his cab about fifty yards from the club. He never joins a rank, and, knowing him, we aren’t very strict. If he can find a nice quiet corner to have his snooze we never disturb him.’

  Old Gregory! Then in a flash Michael remembered the mysterious words of the nondescript of Gallows Court: ‘What was the matter with Gregory?’

  Here was a new angle to many problems. He made a quick decision. Calling a more leisurely taxi, he drove off to Tidal Basin. Gallows Court had something to tell, and since Gallows Court never slept it might be more instructive in the middle of the night than in the broad and hateful light of day.

  Shale arrived at Scotland Yard simultaneously with the telephoned news that Bray was on his way accompanied by the two people he had been sent to seek. Mr Mason leaned back in his chair and rubbed his hands. He was relieved. To find suspects quietly was more desirable than telling all the world they were wanted; for a suspect, having gained much undesirable publicity, very often proves to be perfectly innocent. Questions are asked in Parliament, and there have been cases where payment has had to be made as compensation for the wounded feelings of someone called urgently to police investigations.

  Parliament had been playing too interfering a part in the police force lately. A new Commissioner had come and was taking credit for all the reforms his subordinates had forced upon his predecessor. The Home Office had issued new instructions which, if they were faithfully carried out, would prevent the police from asking vital questions. Every step that the crank and the busybody could devise to interfere with the administration of justice had assumed official shape.

  Superintendent Mason knew the regulations by heart. One had to know them to evade them. Like every other high official of Scotland Yard, he lived at the mercy of stupid policemen and the perjury of some eminent man’s light o’ love. But the risk did not sit heavily upon him.