by Robert Reed
“What do you mean?” he gasped .
He had a superstitious dread of this undefeatable man . With the
ignorance of his kind he had endowed him with powers which were
almost supernatural .
“I want the man you helped to kidnap to-night, or if you did not
help to kidnap, assisted in searching,” said the Italian, pleasantly .
“It’s a lie,” said the other . “I know nothing about a kidnapped
man .”
“The man you searched to-night,” continued Tillizini, unemo-
tionally, “whose pockets you ransacked, whose papers you exam-
ined . Where is he?”
The look of fear in the man’s face was ludicrous .
“How do you know?” he gasped .
“I know,” said Tillizini. “That is sufficient.”
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He waited for the stout man to speak, but in whatever fear he
stood of the detective, his terror of reprisal from his comrades was
a greater factor .
“I can tell you nothing—nothing,” he said, sullenly .
“Then you shall come a little journey with me,” said Tillizini .
“We will leave the light, if you don’t mind . Get up .”
He went to the door and, standing with his back against it, un-
locked it .
“You will go first,” he said.
Outside the street was deserted, save for a number of children
who were playing noisily in the roadway .
“To the right,” said Tillizini, curtly .
The man obeyed .
Drawn up by the opposite side of the pavement a little way along
was a pair-horse brougham . Opposite this Pietro waited till Tilliz-
ini’s voice stopped him .
“Get in .”
Again the man obeyed and Tillizini followed . He closed the door,
and the prisoner noted that he gave no instructions as to where the
man was to drive . Evidently that had already been arranged . His
wonder was dissipated when he found the carriage driving along the
Thames Embankment . He was going to Tillizini’s house . He pulled
himself together . He was half losing his nerve . After all, Tillizini
could not torture him here, in the heart of London, and he a Govern-
ment official.
It was to Adelphi Terrace that the carriage drove and pulled up
before the detective’s house .
“Get out .”
The map followed his instructions . Tillizini’s ring was instantly
answered by a servant . The two men stepped into the hall .
“Has anybody been?” asked the detective, in English .
“No, sir, except a man called with a parcel for you .”
“A parcel?” He looked thoughtful . “A large parcel?” he asked,
idly .
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“No, sir, a smallish parcel,” replied the man . “He would not leave
it until I signed for it .”
“I see,” said the detective, “and so you left him at the hall door
whilst you went down to get a pencil?”
The man smiled .
“Oh, no, sir, I took the parcel from him—there it is on the hall
table . I wouldn’t leave the door .”
Tillizini’s lips twitched . In the most tragic moments of his life he
could find sources of amusement. He scarcely gave the parcel more
than a passing glance. Instead, his eyes rapidly surveyed the floor.
He opened the door, and looked at the lock . It was a patent lock with
a small catch . From the slot into which the bevelled snap caught he
extracted two little threads. He examined them briefly and kept them
between the finger and thumb of his left hand. All the time he kept
his hold upon his revolver, though the servant did not observe it .
“Very good, Thomas,” he said, as he closed the door again, “you
may go . Marchez, mon ami .”
This last was to his prisoner . Pietro obeyed . He mounted the
broad staircase to the dark landing above, and Tillizini stepped close
to his prisoner .
“Go through that door,” he said .
Pietro did so .
He flung the door open, hesitated a moment, then stepped in.
When the Italian’s hand was on the knob of the door, Tillizini spoke .
He was addressing apparently a person below .
“All right, Thomas,” he said loudly, “you may bring up that par-
cel now .”
Then he pushed Pietro into the room . It was in complete dark-
ness, as he expected . The captive stood hesitating in the doorway
for a fraction of a second, Tillizini behind him, waiting . He had only
to wait for an infinitesimal space of time. From the darkness in the
room four shots rang out in rapid succession and Pietro pitched for-
ward on his face, a dying man .
Tillizini had moved swiftly under cover of the doorway . He of-
fered no view of himself to his hidden enemy . He heard the quick
THE 4TH PLAGUE, by Edgar Wallace (Part 2) | 340
steps of Thomas . In the hall below were governing switches by
which any room in the house could be illuminated . A quick order
from Tillizini, and the lights blazed up in his room .
He sprang in, leaping over the twitching form of the fallen man .
The room was empty; it offered no cover to any person in hiding .
There was no need to search beyond the open window . The man
who had waited there had already prepared and carried into effect
his escape .
Tillizini shut down the switch and the room was in darkness
again. He flew to the window. A slender rope had been fastened
to the leg of his heavy writing table . It extended across the room,
through the open window, and now swung to and fro in the breeze
below .
The street was empty. There was no profit in searching farther.
He closed down the window and ‘phoned the police .
The man on the floor was too far gone for help. He was dying
when Tillizini reached his side . With the help of the servant and a
hastily-summoned policeman he was laid on the settee, where a few
nights before the helpless and innocent victim of the “Red Hand’s”
plotting had lain .
Tillizini’s busy hands plucked phial after phial from his medicine
chest…the man revived a little, but it was evident, long before the
police surgeon came, that he had no chance . He looked up at Til-
lizini’s emotionless face with a faint smile .
“Signor,” he said, in Italian, “I ought to have known better—it
was thus you trapped others . I have certain monies at the bank”—he
named the institution—“I wish that money to go to my sister, who
is a widow at Sezzori .”
“That I will send, Pietro .”
“You know my name,” said the dying man .
“I know you very well,” said Tillizini .
The man looked at him bleakly .
“Some day,” he said, at last—his voice was growing fainter—
“they will have you, our brave ‘Red Hand,’ Signor, and there will be
a great killing .”
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He checked himself and looked round at the uncomprehending
policeman, who could not understand the language, and at the ser-
> vant, obviously English and agitated by the extraordinary character
of the evening .
Then he half whispered .
“There is something I wish to tell you, Signor .”
His voice was now difficult to hear. Tillizini bent his head to
catch the words, and in that moment the dying man mustered his
last reserve of strength; by sheer effort of malignant will he called
into play all the vital forces which were left alive within him . As
Tillizini’s head sank lower and lower, Pietro’s hand crept to his side .
“Signor,” he whispered, “take that!” Quick as he was, Tillizini
was quicker . As he whipped round, his vice-like grip held the other’s
wrist, and the gleaming knife fell with a clatter to the polished floor.
Then with a quick jerk he flung the man’s hand down on the settee
and stood up, smiling .
“How like a rat, Pietro, how like a rat!” And the dying man, unre-
pentant of his many villainies, of the sorrow and the suffering he had
brought to so many people, saw with the glaze of death filming his
eyes, the lips of Tillizini part in an amused and contemptuous smile .
* * * *
An hour later Tillizini sat in the private office of Inspector Crocks,
of Scotland Yard .
“It was a narrow squeak for you,” said the inspector, admiringly .
“There were two,” said Tillizini, dryly . “Which one do you
mean?”
“The first, I think, was the most serious,” said the Englishman.
“Now it’s strange that you should say that,” said Tillizini . “I think
the second was—the dagger was poisoned . I discovered that soon
after .”
“Poisoned?”
“Yes, with a poison that is not a particularly pleasant one—teta-
nus,” he said .
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“Good God!” said the inspector, genuinely shocked . “That’s the
germ of lock-jaw, isn’t it?”
Tillizini nodded .
“That is it,” he said, cheerfully . “A pleasant end especially
planned for me . I tell you these men are scientists in a crude way . I
knew he was upstairs waiting, the first man. An old trick that, you’ve
probably had it played on innocent suburban folk of this city hun-
dreds of times .”
The inspector agreed with a gesture .
“When the amiable Thomas closed the door, our friend who de-
livered the parcel quickly put up a piece of canvas paper backed
with a strong silk fabric . The door caught in the staple, but so did the
strong silk . When he considered the coast was clear and he judged
Thomas to be out of the way, he had but to pull the projecting end—”
“I know the trick,” said the inspector . “I’ve seen it done a score
of times .”
“I suspected something of the sort,” said Tillizini, “but mostly I
suspected a parcel . I thought, too, that the kidnapping of Smith was
a ruse to get me out so that a warm welcome might be prepared for
me when I came back .”
“Have you found the man?”
“He’ll be found,” said Tillizini, “by to-morrow morning .”
“I’ve got men out now hunting for him,” said Crocks . “It’s rather
a difficult job, Tillizini, dealing with your people.”
Tillizini smiled .
“They are somewhat different to the average English criminal,”
he said . “One of these days when you are in Florence, Inspector, you
must come to my museum and I’ll show you the skulls of typical
criminals of all countries . I will explain then to you just why our
Southern men are more dangerous to handle, and if you would be
patient with me,” he favoured the policeman with his little bow, “I
would then as briefly as possible give you the basis by which you
may forejudge men’s actions .”
“In other words,” said the Inspector, jovially, “you’ll give me
elementary lessons in necromancy .”
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“Something of the sort,” said Tillizini . He had had half an hour
with Crocks and with the Commissioner . Another crime had been
laid at the door of the “Red Hand .” A worrying business for the
English police, however satisfactory it might be to Tillizini .
He rose from his chair and looked at his watch; it was nearly
twelve . The inspector followed his example .
“Where are you going now?”
“I’m going back to my house,” he said, “will you come?”
“I have an hour to spare,” said the other, “and I like your room,
it’s rather restful . If I shan’t be in the way I’ll come round and get a
few particulars at first hand.”
“Come along,” said Tillizini .
He passed through the broad corridors of Scotland Yard, down
the stone stairway, and out by the entrance near the arch . The police-
man on duty at the door saluted him respectfully .
They strolled together leisurely back to the house in Adelphi Ter-
race . Tillizini rang; it was an act of laziness on his part that he did
not find his key. There was no reply, and he rang again. Then he
opened the door himself and stepped in . The two hall lights were
burning, but there was no sign of Thomas .
Tillizini closed the door behind him . Thomas was usually to be
found in the basement . He walked to the end of the passage and
called over the stairs, but again without reply . Neatly folded on a
little dumb waiter, placed for better security beneath a glass, was a
note . Tillizini pulled it out, took it up and read it . It explained much .
It was addressed to the man, Thomas .
“I have been arrested in connexion with to-day’s crime,” it said;
“please bring my overcoat at once to Bow Street.”
It was signed, “Antonio Tillizini .”
Without a word he handed the wire to the English detective .
“We will now go and discover things,” he said, and led the way
upstairs .
He did not trouble to arm himself because he knew the ways
of the “Red Hand” too well to believe that any of the organization
were present . They had probably had half an hour after Thomas had
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hurried away with the necessary overcoat . They would do what they
wanted to do in ten minutes .
He opened the door of his room and walked in without fear . He
switched on the light . The room was in confusion . There had been
a diligent and damaging search . The drawers of his desk had been
ripped open and the floor was covered with papers and splinters of
rosewood .
Not even the chairs and the settee had escaped attention . They
had been cut open and their stuffings pulled out. The legs of one
chair had been lopped off as by a machette . Strangely enough, the
little case of medicines, which still stood open on his desk, had been
left intact . The “Red Hand” had too great a respect for Tillizini’s
knowledge of chemistry, and they had had such illuminating lessons
of his knowledge of high explosives, that they had left this severely
alone, ex
cepting that there was plenty of evidence that each phial
had been carefully and cautiously lifted from its velvet-lined well
and examined .
With a quick glance at the damage done, the Italian walked with
rapid strides across the room, lifted up one corner of the carpet and
slipped back a narrow panel in the floor. It had been cunningly con-
structed by Tillizini’s own hand . It would be almost impossible for
anybody not in the secret to know that such a receptacle existed . He
thrust in his hand, and felt for a little while with a grim smile, then
his hand slowly withdrew . The detective saw that he held a paper .
“For the locket, thanks,” he read; “now you shall hear from us,
Tillizini .”
The Italian said nothing . He stood in the middle of the room, his
hands clasped on his breast, his head sunk in thought .
“They have taken the locket,” said Inspector Crocks, aghast .
Tillizini did not reply .
There came a knock at the door, and Thomas, still with his mas-
ter’s overcoat on his arm, entered .
“I’m sorry, sir; did you?” he began .
Tillizini raised his head .
THE 4TH PLAGUE, by Edgar Wallace (Part 2) | 345
“Thomas,” he said, “I have told you under no circumstances must
you leave this house . Your failure to carry out my instructions, how-
ever, is mainly my fault . To-morrow I will draw you a little sign
which you will see on any letter or wire I send, and know that it
comes from me .”
“I’m very sorry, sir,” said Thomas . Tillizini waved his apologies
away .
“It is nothing,” he said, “all this; rather,” he smiled, “I owe you
an apology . You have a little child, have you not?”
“Yes, sir,” said Thomas, wonderingly . “You carry his portrait in
a locket, do you not?”
“Oh, yes, sir,” replied Thomas . “Why, you know I do, sir . I
brought you the locket to see the other day .”
“I am sorry to say, Thomas,” said Tillizini, gravely, “that I have
lost it—I hope it may be recovered . I put it in a safe place, I assure
you .”
“Oh, it’s nothing, sir,” said Thomas . “I can get another . It wasn’t
worth half a crown .”
“A token of a father’s love is invaluable,” said Tillizini, the cor-
ners of his lips turning up .
He took his revolver from his pocket, pressed a spring near the
trigger guard, and a little silver lid flew open in the butt. He held his