The Crime Club

by Frank Froest

  ‘That’s all right,’ muttered Grenfell to himself. ‘They’ll hang on to her now till all’s blue.’ He knew the competence of the Central Office men, and renewed his story with an eye on the white-painted house. He registered in his mind all the comings and goings of visitors during the afternoon, but that may have been merely a matter of habit. He had not intended to watch the house after he had pointed out Miss Fastlet to her shadowers. Indeed, though McFall insisted that he should share the reward if the forgers were run to earth, the case was no concern of his. He had no official standing in the United States, and he doubted if he could even legally effect an arrest.

  But he hated the feeling of being a spectator, and presently he closed his magazine. There was no one in sight—no sign of life about the white house. The temptation overcame him. Rapidly he took a survey, decided the servants’ quarters were probably located in the east wing, opened the gate, and moved into the shrubbery. It was indiscreet. It was probably criminal. But the lust of a chase was in his blood, and he coolly took his risk. He wanted to know more about the inside of the house, and this seemed an opportunity.

  Fortune favoured him, for he found an open window on the ground floor which led into a small sitting-room. He moved quietly and quickly across it and into the passage. He wanted to waste no time in his investigation.

  The ground-floor rooms were of a perfectly innocent character, though Grenfell raised his eyebrows at what he recognised must be expensive furnishings. For a retired theatrical manager and a mayor who did no grafting, Fastlet certainly had ideas of comfort.

  Once Grenfell slipped behind a portière, and a servant brushed past him almost within an inch. He waited perfectly still for five minutes and then resumed his survey. If there had been nothing suspicious downstairs there was still less upstairs. He pushed his head in bedroom after bedroom, and the feeling that he was making a fool of himself became more convincing every moment.

  There was one room, entered through a sort of sitting-room. The door refused to give as he twisted the handle. He swore softly to himself. ‘I might have known!’ he exclaimed. ‘Bound to be locked.’

  He remained standing in thought for a moment or so and then tried to peer through the keyhole. A flap on the other side defeated him. He sniffed inquiringly. Then he straightened himself up and found himself looking down the muzzles of a 12-bore shot-gun.

  ‘Make yourself at home,’ invited the man at the other end of the gun. ‘Don’t mind me.’ He was a tall, awkward man of fifty or thereabouts, square-faced, clean-shaven, with thin grey hair, and a mouth like a rat-trap. He wore a light lounge suit, and the noiselessness of his approach was accounted for by the fact that he was in woollen slippers.

  Grenfell stood stock-still. He knew that it would be very difficult to miss with a shot-gun at three yards. Had the weapon been a pistol he might have chanced a dash. He was wise enough to recognise that that was out of the question.

  ‘Mr Fastlet, I presume,’ he said politely. He was in a tight place, and he knew it. There was nothing to be gained by losing his head.

  ‘That’s me,’ agreed the other grimly. ‘Don’t you be too fresh, Mr Man, and keep your hands away from your pockets. That’s better.’ He walked across the room, selected an arm-chair, and sat down, the gun still trained on Grenfell. It ran swiftly across the mind of the detective that an ordinary householder who had surprised a burglar would have summoned help. ‘You can sit down if you like,’ said Fastlet. ‘Only move smoothly, because my nerves are rather out of order. I’d just hate to have a corpse on my hands.’

  Grenfell leaned against the wall. ‘I’d rather stand, thanks,’ he said languidly.

  ‘That’s all right,’ agreed the other, ‘so long as you don’t try any monkey tricks. Well, what do you think you’re going to do about it?’

  ‘It’s up to you,’ pointed out Grenfell. He was philosopher enough to accept things as they happened, and he judged that if he was in a dilemma his captor was no less so.

  Fastlet studied him silently for a minute or so.

  ‘So it’s up to me,’ he repeated slowly. ‘You know that a man is justified in shooting a burglar whom he finds searching his house. Any jury would call that justifiable homicide.’ He raised the gun and glanced along the barrels. Grenfell read murder in his eyes.

  He shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘I don’t think you’ll do that, Mr Fastlet,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t, if I were you. You see, there is a Central Office man staying in the town, and he knows where I am. If I’m any judge he’ll stir around pretty soon, and a dead body won’t be easy for you to explain away.’

  The mayor’s face was expressionless as he lowered the gun. ‘And who in Hades are you?’ he demanded doubtfully.

  ‘My name is Grenfell, detective-inspector of the Criminal Investigation Department, New Scotland Yard.’

  Fastlet dropped the gun and, standing up, broke into a thunderous roar of laughter as he extended a hand. ‘Well, I’m jiggered. The joke’s on you this time. Burchnall told me that you and McFall were here, but I didn’t expect to catch you burgling my house. D’you think I’m a forger? Ha, ha! That’s good. What the dickens are you doing, anyway?’

  It was a question that was difficult to answer. Grenfell had no excuse, no explanation to offer. If he had held any authority he might possibly have taken action. He really believed that Fastlet would have murdered him had he not bluffed about McFall. There was only one course for him to adopt. He smiled blandly into the mayor’s face.

  ‘Come and have dinner with me tonight,’ he said, ‘and I’ll put you wise to the whole thing. As you say, the joke’s on me. Now let me hurry away, there’s a good man, or McFall will be making trouble. See you later.’

  Grenfell had run his hardest for ten minutes before he found a very fat and very dignified policeman. He seized that official’s sleeve and dragged him along for a dozen yards in his headlong career. ‘Get on to the fire-brigade,’ he said breathlessly. ‘Turn ’em out to the mayor’s house. Don’t ask questions. Get busy.’

  The intelligent officer gave a guttural and indistinct sound which Grenfell took for assent, and his sleeve now released, plodded at a slower but no less breathless pace in the wake of the detective.

  Grenfell raced into the hotel, threw an inquiry and an order at the clerk in the hall in the same breath, and found McFall at the telephone with Wills at his elbow. His hand fell on the sergeant’s shoulder, and he tore him away in the middle of a sentence.

  ‘Come on,’ he urged. ‘There’s no time to waste. I’ve ordered a car.’

  A bell clanged noisily and a motor fire-engine raced by in the street below. Grenfell was too out of breath for lengthy explanations, but luckily the Central Office men were people of action.

  ‘Garage end of first block on the right,’ said the clerk as they dashed once more into the hall. ‘I’ve phoned ’em to get their best car ready.’

  Nevertheless there was a wait of a few moments at the garage. Grenfell in short staccato sentences jerked out some of the conclusions he had arrived at. ‘Yes. We’ve got to be quick if that’s the case,’ said McFall. ‘We’ll drop Wills at the house.’ The car was ready by this time, and they jumped aboard. ‘Now cut loose for all she’s worth,’ ordered McFall.

  It had taken Grenfell a quarter of an hour to get from the mayor’s house to the hotel. It took the car barely three minutes to cover the distance. A small crowd was gathered about the gates, and a thin, almost undiscernible wreath of vapour was circling from a window. The firemen had a hose out, and even in the roadway they could hear the smashing of axes on woodwork.

  Wills jumped to the ground as the car slackened pace, and ran forward. They could see him making eager inquiries, and presently he came running back. ‘Been gone ten minutes!’ he shouted. ‘Car a little old-fashioned, green-painted two-seater. You’ll pick him up easy.’

  The chauffeur pressed over a lever and the car slid smoothly forward. McFall took from his pocket a 44-autom
atic, took out a clip of cartridges, and pushed it back again. ‘You got a gun?’ he asked.

  Grenfell shook his head.

  ‘You never know,’ said McFall, dropping the weapon in his jacket pocket and fixing his eyes ahead on the blinding white road as it whirled towards them. Twice they slackened speed to make inquiries. It was on the second occasion that they learned the green-painted car was but a mile ahead of them, and a few minutes later a little cloud of dust in front showed that they were rapidly overhauling their quarry.

  ‘Keep straight on,’ McFall advised the chauffeur. ‘We’ll run ahead of them and hold them up.’

  In a little they were near enough to see a face peering over the back of the leading car. ‘Look out,’ cried Grenfell, and dropped without shame into the bottom of the car. The glass wind-screen shattered, and they could hear the shriek of a bullet as it tore overhead.

  McFall was holding the barrel of his automatic balanced on the palm of his left hand. The thud of his answering shot was almost simultaneous. But a fragment of glass from the broken wind-screen had caught their chauffeur on the cheek. The car swerved, righted again, and then the brakes were on.

  ‘I’m done,’ said the chauffeur; ‘he’s got me.’

  McFall swore. Grenfell was making a hasty examination of the man. ‘You’re all right,’ he told him. ‘That’s only a bit of glass. That won’t hurt you.’

  The chauffeur looked relieved. ‘Get on,’ ordered McFall. ‘Let her loose.’

  ‘Not me,’ said the man doggedly. ‘This car isn’t hired for gun-play. Count me out.’

  It was no moment to waste time in argument. McFall stuck the muzzle of his weapon against the back of the chauffeur’s neck. ‘Get on with it,’ he ordered curtly.

  Sullenly the chauffeur started up again. It was a choice of evils, but the man in front might miss if he started shooting again, the detective certainly would not. In a matter of five minutes they were again within fifty yards of the green car. McFall commenced to fire. He was taking no chances. Once only was a shot returned, and as they drew nearer Grenfell, who was peering over the top of the seat, perceived the reason. Fastlet’s chauffeur had also needed persuading with a pistol. He laughed as the situation became clear to him.

  ‘Make him slack up as we come alongside the other car,’ he told McFall. ‘I’m going to jump for it.’

  McFall nodded. The Scotland Yard man braced himself for a leap. Inch by inch they drew near the other car, and Fastlet, facing around, fired twice. Both shots went wide.

  Then Grenfell jumped. He heard the wooden thud of McFall’s automatic again, and as he landed, his face was scorched by the explosion of the mayor’s pistol. Then his strong, wiry arms were around Fastlet, and he dragged him down backwards. Both cars slid to a halt just as the two struggling men fell heavily to the ground.

  The mayor was a powerful man, but he had been taken at a disadvantage. Moreover, Grenfell was as physically fit as it is possible for a man of forty to be. By the time McFall had come running to his assistance he had the mayor pinned. The Central Office man put away his weapon and dragged out a shiny pair of self-adjusting, nickel-plated handcuffs, which he clipped round the prisoner’s wrists.

  ‘Now we’re all hunky,’ he said, and they assisted the prisoner to rise.

  ‘This is you,’ said Fastlet, glaring menacingly at Grenfell. ‘If you hadn’t been so darned quick—’ He checked himself. ‘What’s the charge, anyway? You’ve got nothing you can bring against me. This means an action for damages.’

  ‘Cut out the bluff,’ said McFall sharply. ‘You’ll be held for forgery, and that’s all there is to it. Let’s get aboard.’

  Far away, back in the Central Office records, long before the days of finger-prints, McFall came across the portrait of a young man. He pointed it out to Grenfell. ‘That finishes it. Here he is ’way back in the nineties. Soapy Smith he is—he was in the green goods trade at one time—but he’s an expert forger. Got ten years in ninety-two and has dropped out of sight since.’

  ‘Let it alone,’ growled Wills. ‘Grenfell’s going to tell us how he got on to the old man—not but what we’ve got him anyway,’ he added, with a touch of esprit de corps. ‘Once we nailed the girl it was plain enough.’

  ‘I was lucky,’ admitted Grenfell modestly. ‘You people have been too long in the game not to know that luck counts a lot. But I’d have been nowhere without your backing. I couldn’t have told for sure on my own that that piece of paper I picked up on the beach was from a forged note without your experts behind me. Still, that was luck to start with. Then when McFall here found out that the mayor was no grafter, we both got to thinking on the same lines.’

  ‘That’s right,’ agreed McFall. ‘A man who’s all for purity in municipal affairs and lives in the way he did has got a reason, you bet.’

  ‘Yes. Soapy must have had it all worked out when he went into politics. If the French police hadn’t tumbled that the stuff was drifting in from the States he might have kept on for ever. Who was going to get suspicious of the high-souled mayor of a seaside town? Besides, he had the local police in his pocket, though I suppose they knew nothing of what he was doing. He kept clear of political graft because he didn’t want Pinkertons or any outside people called in by a purity committee. Then he was handy to New York.

  ‘I figured this out while I was waiting to put you on to the girl. I gave McFall credit for having the same line. But I wanted to get the thing done with quickly, and it didn’t seem to me likely to work out in a hurry on soft lines. That was how it came into my head to break into the house on the off-chance of picking up something. I’d have waited to put you boys up to it, but after all, only one man could go in. There wasn’t anything to be gained by sharing the risk among four.

  ‘I’ll own freely it looked as if I was on a dead end till I got upstairs. There was a room there—a sort of study—with another room leading out of it. The door of the second room was locked, but I got a kind of mixed smell of chemicals. I knew then that I was right, and that I had happened on the private laboratory. It was then that the old man happened on me with a shotgun.

  ‘He knew who I was—he’d been talking to Burchnall—and at first I looked like qualifying for a funeral. I bluffed that McFall was lying in wait, and we called a truce. We shook hands and I came away.

  ‘It was pretty obvious he wasn’t going to sit around once he’d got me out of the house, and if he made a get-away he wouldn’t want to leave any evidence behind him either. That was how I came to think of a fire-call.’

  ‘Lucky you did,’ observed Wills. ‘The firemen had just broken into the laboratory when I got there. He’d simply piled the place with junk, emptied a can of kerosene over it, chucked in a match, and locked the door again. We saved enough out of the ruins to get hold of the whereabouts of their crooks in France. We’ve cabled the address over. He was supplying them with phony paper at 50 per cent discount.’

  ‘You haven’t told me about the girl,’ said Grenfell. ‘What’s happened to her?’

  ‘She’s safe enough,’ said Gann. ‘The old man seems to have got somewhat disturbed when he heard that McFall and you were on the warpath. He is a wary bird, and had no dealings direct with those who were handling the paper. He had a little cigar store in the Bronx under the name of George James, with a manager in charge. The manager had no knowledge of anything wrong—he didn’t even know where his employer lived. Soapy never came to the town himself. He always sent the girl, and she collected letters off the manager, and posted every mail that was to go out. Well, as I say, he smelt something and sent her off to New York to destroy any mail she found there, I pulled her actually in the store. She’s his daughter, but I think she’ll clear herself. He didn’t trust even her. She never knew what was in the letters coming or going. By the way, she had in her bag the rest of the fragments of the note. It was a sample included in a letter to a crook named Wilson.’

  McFall yawned and stretched himself. ‘The chief’s so
pleased he’ll eat out of your hand. Say, it’s getting near hungry-time. I put it to the meeting that it’s on to us to show Grenfell what little old New York can do in the way of dinners. As many as are in favour of the resolution will—’

  ‘Ay,’ interrupted Gann and Wills together.

  ‘Carried unanimously,’ said McFall.

  VII

  A MEETING OF GREEKS

  HOLDRON tapped his desk peremptorily with a lean forefinger. He was a hard-eyed man with prominent cheek-bones, and his voice rasped.

  ‘That’s nothing to do with you,’ he said brusquely. ‘I only want you to recover the papers or to indicate the man who stole them, and I will do the rest. That’s why I’m paying you a big fee instead of calling in the official police.’

  Weir Menzies shrugged his shoulders. ‘It’s asking me to work in the dark,’ he grumbled. ‘If you were ill you’d expect to tell your doctor all your symptoms. You’d confide in your lawyer if you had any legal business.’

  ‘I’m not going to argue about it,’ said Holdron sharply. ‘I hire you on my terms or not at all.’

  There was an atmosphere of ponderous placidity about Weir Menzies which was apt to deceive those who were not familiar with him. Portly, prosperous looking, with a heavy black moustache and a ruddy genial face, he was obviously of the middle classes. One might have considered him a tradesman of moderate business astuteness—certainly not a man of specially subtle brain or resource. Yet Menzies, senior partner in the private inquiry firm of Menzies & Spink, had a reputation as well earned as the pension he enjoyed as chief inspector of the Criminal Investigation Department. A hard man and a tenacious man, in spite of the fact that he was a churchwarden at Tooting and spoken of in municipal circles as a coming borough councillor.