Elk 01 The Fellowship of the Frog

by Edgar Wallace

  “Here, what—” he began. But Brady led him and pushed him back to his own table.

  “You fool!” he hissed. “Why do you want to advertise yourself in this way? You’re a hell of a Secret Service man!”

  “I don’t want any of that stuff from you,” said Ray roughly as he jerked his arm free.

  “Sit down, Ray,” said Lola in a low voice. “Half Scotland Yard is in the club, watching you.”

  He followed the direction of her eyes and saw Dick Gordon regarding him gravely, and the sight and knowledge of that surveillance maddened him. Leaping to his feet, he crossed the room to where they sat.

  “Looking for me?” he asked loudly. “Want me for anything?”

  Dick shook his head.

  “You damned police spy!” stormed the youth, white with unreasoning passion. “Bringing your bloodhounds after me! What are you doing with this gang, Johnson? Are you turned policeman too?”

  “My dear Ray,” murmured Johnson.

  “My dear Ray!” sneered the other. “You’re jealous, you poor worm—jealous because I’ve got away from the bloodsucker’s clutches! As to you “—he waved a threatening finger in Dick’s face—“you leave me alone—see? You’ve got a whole lot of work to do without carrying tales to my sister.”

  “I think you had better go back to your friends,” said Dick coolly. “Or, better still, go home and sleep.”

  All this had occurred between the dances, and now the band struck up, but if the attention of the crowded clubroom was in no wise relaxed, there was this change, that Ray’s high voice now did not rise above the efforts of the trap drummer.

  Dick looked round for the watchful Hagn. He knew that the manager, or one of the officials of the club, would interfere instantly. It was not Hagn, but a head waiter, who came up and pushed the young man back.

  So intent was everybody on that little scene that followed, in the spectacle of that flushed youth struggling against the steady pressure which the head waiter and his fellows asserted, that nobody saw the man who for a while stood in the doorway surveying the scene, before pushing aside the attendants he strode into the centre of the room.

  Ray, looking round, was almost sobered by the sight of his father.

  The rugged, grey-haired man, in his worn, tweed suit, made a striking contrast to that gaily-dressed throng. He stood, his hands behind him, his face white and set, surveying his son, and the boy’s eyes dropped before him.

  “I want you, Ray,” he said simply.

  The floor was deserted; the music ceased, as though the leader of the orchestra had been signalled that something was wrong.

  “Come back with me to Horsham, boy.”

  “I’m not going,” said Ray sullenly.

  “He is not with you, Mr. Gordon?”

  Dick shook his head, and at this intervention the fury of Ray Bennett flamed again.

  “With him!” he said scornfully. “Would I be with a sneaking policeman?”

  “Go with your father, Ray.” It was Johnson’s urgent advice, and his hand lay for a second on the boy’s shoulder.

  Ray shook him off.

  “I’ll stay here,” he said, and his voice was loud and defiant. “I’m not a baby, that I can’t be trusted out alone. You’ve no right to come here, making me look a fool.” He glowered at his father. “You’ve kept me down all these years, denied me money that I ought to have had—and who are you that you should pretend to be shocked because I’m in a decent club, wearing decent clothes? I’m straight: can you say the same? If I wasn’t straight, could you blame me? You’re not going to put any of that kind father stuff over—”

  “Come away.” John Bennett’s voice was hoarse.

  “I’m staying here,” said Ray violently. “And in future you can leave me alone. The break had to come some time, and it might as well come now.”

  They stood facing one another, father and son, and in the tired eyes of John Bennett was a look of infinite sadness.

  “You’re a silly boy, Ray. Perhaps I haven’t done all I could—”

  “Perhaps!” sneered the other. “Why, you know it! You get out!”

  And then, as he turned his head, he saw the suppressed smiles on the face of the audience, and the hurt to his vanity drove him mad.

  “Come,” said John gently, and laid his hand on the boy’s arm. With a roar of fury Ray broke loose…in a second the thing was done. The blow that struck John Bennett staggered him, but he did not fall.

  And then, through the guests who thronged about the two, came Ella. She realized instantly what had happened. Elk had slipped from his seat and was standing behind the boy, ready to pin him if he raised his hand again. But Ray Bennett stood, frozen with horror, speechless, incapable of movement.

  “Father!” The white-faced girl whispered the word.

  The head of John Bennett dropped, and he suffered himself to be led away.

  Dick Gordon wanted to follow and comfort, but he saw Johnson going after them and went back to his table. Again the music started, and they took Ray Bennett back to his table, where he sat, head on hand, till Lola signalled a waiter to bring more wine.

  “There are times,” said Elk, “when the prodigal son and the fatted calf look so like one another that you can’t tell ‘em apart.”

  Dick said nothing, but his heart bled for the mystery man of Horsham. For he had seen in John Bennett’s face the agony of the damned.

  XIII - A RAID ON ELDOR STREET

  Johnson did not come back, and in many respects the two men were glad. Elk had been on the point of telling the secretary to clear, and he hoped that Mr. Maitland would follow his example. As if reading his thoughts, the old man rose soon after the room had quietened down. He had sat through the scene which had followed Ray’s meeting with his father, and had apparently displayed not the slightest interest in the proceedings. It was as though his mind were so far away that he could not bring himself to a realization of actualities.

  “He’s going, and he hasn’t paid his bill,” whispered Elk.

  In spite of his remissness, the aged millionaire was escorted to the door by the three chief waiters, his topcoat, silk hat and walking-stick were brought to him, and he was out of Dick Gordon’s sight before the bowing servants had straightened themselves.

  Elk looked at his watch: it wanted five minutes of one. Hagn had not returned—a circumstance which irritated the detective and was a source of uneasiness to Dick Gordon. The merriment again worked up to its highest point, when the two men rose from the table and strolled toward the door. A waiter came after them hurriedly.

  “Monsieur has not paid his bill.”

  “We will pay that later,” said Dick, and at that moment the hands of the clock pointed to the hour.

  Precisely five minutes later the club was in the hands of the police. By 1.15 it was empty, save for the thirty raiding detectives and the staff.

  “Where is Hagn?” Dick asked the chief waiter.

  “He has gone home, monsieur,” said the man sullenly. “He always goes home early.”

  “That’s a lie,” said Elk. “Show me to his room.” Hagn’s office was in the basement, a part of the old mission hall that had remained untouched. They were shown to a large, windowless cubicle, comfortably furnished, which was Hagn’s private bureau, but the man had disappeared. Whilst his subordinates were searching for the books and examining, sheet by sheet, the documents in the clerk’s office, Elk made an examination of the room. In one corner was a small safe, upon which he put the police seal; and lying on a sofa in some disorder was a suit of clothes, evidently discarded in a hurry. Elk looked at them, carried them under the ceiling light, and examined them. It was the suit Hagn had been wearing when he had shown them to their seats.

  “Bring in that head waiter,” said Elk.

  The head waiter either wouldn’t or couldn’t give information.

  “Mr. Hagn always changes his clothes before he goes home,” he said.

  “Why did he go befor
e the club was closed?”

  The man shrugged his shoulders.

  “I don’t know anything about his private affairs,” he said, and Elk dismissed him.

  Against the wall was a dressing-table and a mirror, and on each side of the mirror stood a small table-lamp, which differed from other table-lamps in that it was not shaded. Elk turned the switch, and in the glaring light scrutinized the table. Presently he found two wisps of hair, and held them against the sleeve of his black coat. In the drawer he found a small bottle of spirit gum, and examined the brush. Then he picked up a little wastepaper basket and turned its contents upon the table. He found a few torn bills, business letters, a tradesman’s advertisement, three charred cigarette ends, and some odd scraps of paper. One of these was covered with gum and stuck together.

  “I reckon he wiped the brush on this,” said Elk, and with some difficulty pulled the folded slip apart.

  It was typewritten, and consisted of three lines:

  “Urgent. See Seven at E.S.2. No raid. Get M.‘s statement. Urgent. F.1.”

  Dick took the paper from his subordinate’s hand and read it.

  “He’s wrong about the no raid,” he said. “E. S., of course, is Eldor Street, arid two is either the number two or two o’clock.”

  “Who’s ‘M.’?” asked Elk, frowning.

  “Obviously Mills—the man we caught at Wandsworth. He made a written statement, didn’t he?”

  “He has signed one,” said Elk thoughtfully.

  He turned the papers over, and after a while found what he was looking for—a small envelope. It was addressed in typewritten characters to “G. V. Hagn,” and bore on the back the stamp of the District Messenger service.

  The staff were still held by the police, and Elk sent for the doorkeeper.

  “What time was this delivered?” he asked.

  The man was an ex-soldier, the only one of the prisoners who seemed to feel his position.

  “It came at about nine o’clock, sir,” he said readily, and produced the letter-book in confirmation. “It was brought by a District Messenger boy,” he explained unnecessarily.

  “Does Mr. Hagn get many notes by District Messenger?”

  “Very few, sir,” said the doorkeeper, and added an anxious inquiry as to his own fate.

  “You can go,” said Elk. “Under escort,” he added, “to your own home. You’re not to communicate with anybody, or tell any of the servants here that I have made inquiries about this letter. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  To make assurance doubly sure, Elk had called up exchange and placed a ban upon all ‘phone communications. It was now a quarter to two, and, leaving half-a-dozen detectives in charge of the club, he got the remainder on to the car that had brought them, and, accompanied by Dick, went full speed for Tottenham.

  Within a hundred yards of Eldor Street the car stopped and unloaded. The first essential was that whoever was meeting No. 7 in Eldor Street should not be warned of their approach. It was more than possible that Frog scouts would be watching at each end of the street.

  “I don’t know why they should,” said Elk, when Dick put this possibility forward.

  “I can give you one very excellent reason,” said Dick quietly. “It is this: that the Frogs know all about your previous visit to Maitland’s slum residence.”

  “What makes you think that?” asked Elk in surprise, but Dick did not enlighten him.

  Sending the men round by circuitous routes, he went forward with Elk, and at the very corner of Eldor Street, Elk found that his chief’s surmise was well founded. Under a lamp-post Elk saw the dim figure of a man standing, and instantly began an animated and raucous conversation concerning a mythical Mr. Brown. Realizing that this was intended for the watcher, Gordon joined in. The man under the lamp-post hesitated just a little too long. As they came abreast of him, Elk turned.

  “Have you got a match?” he asked.

  “No,” growled the other, and the next instant was on the ground, with Elk’s knee on his chest and the detective’s bony hand around his throat.

  “Shout, Frog, and I’ll throttle you,” hissed the detective ferociously.

  There was no scuffle, no sound. The thing was done so quickly that, if there were other watchers in the street, they could not have known what had happened, or have received any warning from their comrade’s fate. The man was in the hands of the following detective, gagged and handcuffed, and on his way to the police car, before he knew exactly what tornado had struck him.

  “Do you mind if I sing?” said Elk as they turned into the street on the opposite side to that where Mr. Maitland’s late residence was situated.

  Without waiting permission Elk broke into song. His voice was thin and flat. As a singer, he was a miserable failure, and Dick Gordon had never in his life listened with so much patience to sounds more hideous. But there would be watchers at each end of the street, he thought, and soon saw that Elk’s precautions were necessary.

  Again it was in the shadow of a street lamp that the sentinel stood—a tall, thickset man, more conscientious in the discharge of his duties than his friend, for Dick saw something glittering in his mouth, and knew that it was a whistle.

  “Give me the world for a wishing well,” wailed Elk, staggering slightly, “Say that my dre-em will come true…”

  And as he sang he made appropriate gestures. His outflung hand caught the whistle and knocked it from the man’s mouth, and in a second the two sprang at him and flung him face downward on the pavement. Elk pulled his prisoner’s cap over his mouth; something black and shiny flashed before the sentry’s eyes, and a cold, circular instrument was thrust against the back of his ear.

  “If you make a sound, you’re a dead Frog,” said Elk; and that portion of his party which had made the circuit coming up at that moment, he handed his prisoner over and replaced his fountain-pen in his pocket.

  “Everything now depends upon whether the gentleman who is patrolling the passage between the gardens has witnessed this disgusting fracas,” said Elk, dusting himself. “If he was standing at the entrance to the passage he has seen it, and there’s going to be trouble.”

  Apparently the patrol was in the alleyway itself and had heard no sound. Creeping to the entrance, Elk listened and presently heard the soft pad of footsteps. He signalled to Dick to remain where he was, and slipped into the passage, walking softly, but not so softly that the man on guard at the back gate of Mr. Maitland’s house did not hear him.

  “Who’s that?” he demanded in a gruff voice.

  “It’s me,” whispered Elk. “Don’t make so much noise.”

  “You’re not supposed to be here,” said the other in a tone of authority. “I told you to stay under the lamp-post—”

  Elk’s eyes had grown accustomed to the darkness, and now he saw his man.

  “There are two queer-looking people in the street: I wanted you to see them,” he whispered.

  All turned now upon the discipline which the Frogs maintained.

  “Who are they?” asked the unknown in a low voice.

  “A man and a woman,” whispered Elk.

  “I don’t suppose they’re anybody important,” grumbled the other.

  In his youth Elk had played football; and, measuring the distance as best he could, he dropped suddenly and tackled low. The man struck the earth with a jerk which knocked all the breath out of his body and made him incapable of any other sound than the involuntary gasp which followed his knock-out. In a second Elk was on him, his bony knee on the man’s throat.

  “Pray, Frog,” he whispered in the man’s ear, “but don’t shout!”

  The stricken man was incapable of shouting, and was still breathless when willing hands threw him into the patrol wagon.

  “We’ll have to go the back way, boys,” said Elk in a whisper.

  This time his task was facilitated by the fact that the garden gate was not locked. The door into the scullery was, however, but there was a
window, the catch of which Elk forced noiselessly. He had pulled off his boots and was in his stockinged feet, and he sidled along the darkened passage. Apparently none of the dilapidated furniture had been removed from the house, for he felt the small table that had stood in the hall on his last visit. Gently turning the handle of Maitland’s room, he pushed.

  The door was open, the room in darkness and empty. Elk came back to the scullery.

  “There’s nobody here on the ground floor,” he said. “We’ll try upstairs.”

  He was half-way up when he heard the murmur of voices and stopped. Raising his eyes to the level of the floor, he saw a crack of light under the doorway of the front room—the apartment which had been occupied by Maitland’s housekeeper. He listened, but could distinguish no consecutive words. Then, with a bound, he took the remaining stairs in three strides, flew along the landing, and flung himself upon the door. It was locked. At the sound of his footsteps the light inside went out. Twice he threw himself with all his weight at the frail door, and at the third attempt it crashed in.

  “Hands up, everybody!” he shouted.

  The room was in darkness, and there was a complete silence. Crouching down in the doorway, he flung the gleam of his electric torch into the room. It was empty!

  His officers came crowding in at his heels, the lamp on the table was relit—the glass chimney was hot—and a search was made of the room. It was too small to require a great deal of investigation. There was a bed, under which it was possible to hide, but they drew blank in this respect. At one end of the room near the bed was a wardrobe, which was filled with old dresses suspended from hangers.

  “Throw out those clothes,” ordered Elk. “There must be a door there into the next house.”

  A glance at the window showed him that it was impossible for the inmates of the room to have escaped that way. Presently the clothes were heaped on the floor, and the detectives were attacking the wooden back of the wardrobe, which did, in fact, prove to be a door leading into the next house. Whilst they were so engaged, Dick made a scrutiny of the table, which was littered with papers. He saw something and called Elk.