The Fellowship of the Frog

by Edgar Wallace

  “They’re all blind,” said Elk in a whisper. “And that is Balder’s own broadcasting apparatus, and the aerial is attached to the lamp.”

  The three servants went out, and, rising, Balder walked to the door and locked it.

  There were another set of windows in the room, looking out upon the side of the house, and one by one Balder closed and shuttered them. He was busy with the second of the three, when Elk put his foot upon a ledge of brick, and, tearing aside the curtain, leapt into the room.

  At the sound, Balder spun round.

  “Evening, Balder,” said Elk.

  The man made no reply. He stood, watching his sometime chief, with eyes that did not waver.

  “Thought I’d come along and tell you that you’ve got your promotion,” said Elk, “as Acting-Sergeant from the 1st of May, in recognition of the services you’ve rendered to the State by poisoning Frog Mills, loosing Frog Hagn, and blowing up my office with a bomb that you planted overnight.”

  Still the man did not speak, nor did he move; and here he was discreet, for the long-barrelled Browning in Elk’s hand covered the lower button of his white piqué waistcoat.

  “And now,” said Elk—there was a ring of triumph in his voice— “you’ll take a little walk with me—I want you, Number Seven!”

  “Haven’t you made a mistake?” drawled Balder, so unlike his usual voice that Elk was for a moment taken aback.

  “I never have made a mistake except about the date when Henry the Eighth married,” said Elk.

  “Who do you imagine I am?” asked this debonair man of the world.

  “I’ve ceased imagining anything about you, Balder—I know!”

  Elk walked with a quick movement toward him and thrust the muzzle of the pistol in his prisoner’s diaphragm.

  “Put up your hands and turn round,” he said.

  Balder obeyed. Slipping a pair of handcuffs from his pocket, Elk snapped them on to the wrists. Deftly the detective strapped the arms from behind, drawing them tight, so that the manacled hands had no play.

  “This is very uncomfortable,” said Balder. “Is it usual for you to make mistakes of this character, Mr. Elk? My name is Collett-Banson.”

  “Your name is Mud,” said Elk, “but I’m willing to listen to anything you like to say. I’d rather have your views on cyanide of potassium than anything. You can sit down.”

  Dick saw a gleam come to the man’s eye; it flashed for a second and was gone. Evidently Elk saw it too.

  “Don’t let your hopes rest upon any monkey tricks that might be played by your attendants,” he said, “because fifty C.I.D. men, most of whom are known personally to you, are disposed round this house.”

  Balder laughed.

  “If they were round the house and on top of the house, they wouldn’t worry me,” he said. “I tell you, inspector, you’ve made a very grave error, and one which will cost you dear. If a gentleman cannot sit in his own drawing-room,”—he glanced at the table—”listening to a wireless concert at The Hague without interfering policemen—then it is about time the police force was disbanded.”

  He walked across to the fireplace carelessly and stood with his back to it; then, lifting his foot, he kicked back one of the steel fire-dogs which stood on either side of the wide hearth, and the “dog” fell over on its side. It was a nervous act of a man who was greatly worried and was not quite conscious of what he was doing. Even Elk, who was all suspicion, saw nothing to excite his apprehension.

  “You think my name is Balder, do you?” the man went on. “Well, all I can say is—”

  Suddenly he flung himself sideways on to the hearthrug, but Elk was quicker. As an oblong slip of the floor gave way beneath the man’s weight, Elk gripped him by the collar and together they dragged him back to the room.

  In a second the three were struggling on the floor together, and in his desperation Balder’s strength was unbelievable. His roaring cry for help was heard. There came a heavy blow on the door, the babble of angry voices without, and then, from the ground outside, a series of sharp explosions, as the army of detectives raced across the lawn, oblivious to the presence of the alarm-guns.

  The fight was short and sharp. The six blind men who comprised the household of No. 7 were hustled away, and in the last car travelled Acting- Sergeant Balder, that redoubtable No. 7, who was the right hand and the left hand of the terrible Frog.

  XXVII.

  MR. BROAD IS INTERESTING

  Dick Gordon ended his interview with Mr. Ezra Maitland at three o’clock in the morning, and went to Headquarters, to find the charge-room at Cannon Row singularly empty. When he had left, it was impossible to get in or out for the crowd of detectives which filled or surrounded the place.

  “On the whole, Pentonville is safest, and I’ve got him there. I asked the Governor to put him in the condemned cell, but it is not etiquette. Anyway, Pentonville is the safest spot I know, and I think that, unless Frogs eat stones, he’ll stay. What has Maitland got to say, Captain?”

  “Maitland’s story, so far as one can get a story from him, is that he went to see Balder by invitation. ‘When you’re sent for by the police, what can you do?’ he asked, and the question is unanswerable.”

  “There is no doubt at all,” said Elk, “that Maitland knew Balder’s character, and it was not in his capacity as policeman that the old man visited him. There is less doubt that this man is hand in glove with the Frog, but it is going to be very difficult to prove.”

  “Maitland puzzles me,” said Dick. “He’s such a bully, and yet such a frightened old man. I thought he was going to drop through the floor when I told him who I was, and why I had come. And when I mentioned the fact that Balder had been arrested, he almost collapsed.”

  “That line has to be followed,” said Elk thoughtfully. “I have sent for Johnson. He ought to be here by now. Johnson must know something about the old man’s business, and he will be a very valuable witness if we can connect the two.”

  The philosopher arrived half-an-hour later, having been aroused from his sleep to learn that his presence was required at Headquarters.

  “Mr. Elk will tell you something which will be public property in a day or two,” said Gordon. “Balder has been arrested in connection with the explosion which occurred in Mr. Elk’s office.”

  It was necessary to explain to Johnson exactly who Balder was, and Dick went on to tell him of the old man’s visit to Slough. Johnson shook his head.

  “I didn’t know that Maitland had a friend of that name,” he said. “Balder? What other name had he?”

  “He called himself Collet-Banson,” said Dick, and a look of understanding came to the face of Johnson.

  “I know that name very well. Mr. Banson used frequently to call at the office, generally late in the evenings—Maitland spends three nights a week working after the clerks have gone, as I know to my cost,” he said. “A rather tall, good looking fellow of about forty?”

  “Yes, that is the man.”

  “He has a house near Windsor. I have never been there, but I know because I have posted letters to him.”

  “What sort of business did Collett-Banson have with Maitland?”

  “I’ve never been able to discover. I always thought of him as a man who had property to sell, for that was the only type of outsider who was ever admitted to Maitland’s presence. I remember that he had the child staying with him for about a week—”

  “That is, the child in Maitland’s house?”

  Johnson nodded.

  “You don’t know what association there is between the child and these two men?”

  “No, sir, except that I am certain that Mr. Collett-Banson had the little boy with him, because I sent toys—mechanical engines or something of the sort—by Mr. Maitland’s directions. It was the day that Mr. Maitland made his will, about eighteen months ago. I re
member the day particularly for a peculiar reason. I had expected Mr. Maitland to ask me to witness the will and was piqued, for no cause, because he brought two clerks up from the office to sign. These little things impress themselves upon one,” he added.

  “Was the will made in favour of the child?”

  Johnson shook his head.

  “I haven’t the slightest knowledge of how the property goes,” he said. “He never discussed the matter with me; he wouldn’t even employ a lawyer. In fact, I don’t remember his ever employing a lawyer all the time I was with him, except for conveyancing work. He told me he had copied the form of will from a book, but beyond feeling hurt that I, an old and faithful servant of his, hadn’t been taken a little into his confidence, I wasn’t greatly interested in the matter. But I do remember that that morning I went down to a store and bought a whole lot of toys, had them packed and brought them back to the office. The old man played with them all the afternoon!”

  Early in the morning Dick Gordon interviewed the prisoners at Pentonville, and found them in a very obstinate mood.

  “I know nothing about babies or children; and if Johnson says he sent toys, he is lying,” said Balder defiantly. “I refuse to make any statement about Maitland or my association with Maitland. I am the victim of police persecution, and I defy you to bring any proof that I have committed a single act in my life—unless it is a crime to live like a gentleman—for which you can imprison me.”

  “Have you any message for your wife and children?” asked Dick sarcastically, and the sullen features of the man relaxed for a second.

  “No, Elk will look after them,” he said humorously.

  The most stringent precautions had been taken to prevent a rescue, and the greatest care was exercised that no communication passed between No. 7 and the outside world. He was charged at Bow Street an hour before the court usually sat. Evidence of arrest was taken, and he was remanded, being removed to Pentonville in a motor-van under armed guard.

  On the third night of his imprisonment, romance came into the life of the second chief warder of Pentonville Prison. He was comparatively young and single, not without good looks, and lived, with his widowed mother, at Shepherd’s Bush. It was his practice to return home after his day’s duty by omnibus, and he was alighting on this day when a lady, who had got off before him, stumbled and fell. Instantly he was by her side, and had lifted her to her feet. She was young and astonishingly pretty and he helped her gain the pavement.

  “It was nothing,” she said smilingly, but with a grimace of pain. “It was very foolish of me to come by ‘bus; I was visiting an old servant of mine who is ill. Will you call me a taxi, please?”

  “Certainly, madam,” said the gallant chief warder.

  The taxi which was passing was beckoned to the kerb. The girl looked round helplessly.

  “I wish I could see somebody I know. I don’t want to go home alone; I’m so afraid of fainting.”

  “If you would not object to my escort,” said the man, with all the warm-hearted earnestness which the sight of a woman in distress awakens in the bosom of impressionable man, “I will see you home.”

  She shot a glance at him which was full of gratitude and accepted his escort, murmuring her regret for the trouble she was giving him.

  It was a beautiful apartment she occupied. The chief warder thought he had never met so gracious and beautiful a lady before, so appropriately housed, and he was right. He would have attended to her injury, but she felt so much better, and her maid was coming in soon, and would he have a whisky-and-soda, and would he please smoke? She indicated where the cigarettes were to be found, and for an hour the chief warder spoke about himself, and had an enjoyable evening.

  “I’m very much obliged to you, Mr. Bron,” she said at parting. “I feel I’ve wasted your evening.”

  “I can assure you,” said Mr. Bron earnestly, “that if this is a waste of time, then time has no use!”

  She laughed.

  “That is a pretty speech,” she said, “and I will let you call to-morrow and see me.”

  He took a careful note of the address; it was an exclusive maisonette in Bloomsbury Square; and the next evening found him ringing the bell, but this time he was not in uniform.

  He left at ten o’clock, an ecstatic man who held his head high and dreamt golden dreams, for the fragrance of her charm (as he wrote her) “permeated his very being.” Ten minutes after he had gone, the girl came out, closed the door behind her and went out into the street, and the idler who had been promenading the pavement threw away his cigar.

  “Good evening, Miss Bassano,” he said.

  She drew herself up.

  “I am afraid you have made a mistake,” she said stiffly.

  “Not at all. You’re Miss Bassano, and my only excuse for addressing you is that I am a neighbour of yours.”

  She looked more closely at him.

  “Oh, Mr. Broad!” she said in a more gracious tone. “I’ve been visiting a friend of mine who is rather ill.”

  “So I’m told, and a nice flat your friend occupies,” he said as he fell in by her side. “I was thinking of hiring it a few days ago. These furnished apartments are difficult to find. Maybe it was a week ago—yes, it was a week ago,” he said carefully; “it was the day before you had your lamentable accident in Shepherd’s Bush.”

  “I don’t quite understand you,” she said, on her guard at once.

  “The truth is,” said Mr. Broad apologetically, “that I’ve been trying to get at Bron too. I’ve been making a very careful study of the prison staff for the past two months, and I’ve a list of the easy boys that has cost me a lot of money to compile. I suppose you didn’t reach the stage where you persuaded him to talk about his interesting prisoner? I tried him last week,” he went on reminiscently. “He goes to a dance club at Hammersmith, and I got acquainted with him through a girl he’s keen about—you’re not the only young love of his life, by the way.”

  She laughed softly.

  “What a clever man you are, Mr. Broad!” she said. “No, I’m not very interested in prisoners. By the way, who is this person you were referring to?”

  “I was referring to Number Seven, who is in Pentonville Gaol,” said Mr. Broad coolly, “and I’ve got an idea he is a friend of yours.”

  “Number Seven?” Her perplexity would have convinced a less hardened man than Joshua Broad. “I have an idea that that is something to do with the Frogs.”

  “That is something to do with the Frogs,” agreed the other gravely, “about whom I daresay you have read. Miss Bassano, I’ll make you an offer.”

  “Offer me a taxi, for I’m tired of walking,” she said, and when they were seated side by side she asked: “What your offer?”

  “I offer you all that you require to get out of this country and to keep you out for a few years, until this old Frog busts—as he will bust! I’ve been watching you for a long time, and, if you won’t consider it an impertinence, I like you. There’s something about you that is very attractive—Don’t stop me, because I’m not going to get fresh with you, or suggest that you’re the only girl that ever made tobacco taste like molasses—I like you in a kind of pitying way, and you needn’t get offended at that either. And I don’t want to see you hurt.”

  He was very serious; she recognized his sincerity, and the word of sarcasm that rose to her lips remained unuttered.

  “Are you wholly disinterested?” she asked.

  “So far as you are concerned, I am,” he replied. “There is going to be an almighty smash, and it is more than likely that you’ll get in the way of some of the flying pieces.”

  She did not answer him at once. What he had said merely intensified her own uneasiness.

  “I suppose you know I’m married?”

  “I guessed that,” he answered. “Take your husband with you. What are you going
to do with that boy?”

  “You mean Ray Bennett?”

  It was curious that she made no attempt to disguise either her position or the part that she was playing. She wondered at herself after she was home. But Joshua Broad had a compelling way, and she never dreamt of deceiving him.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I wish he wasn’t in it. He is on my conscience. Are you smiling?”

  “At your having a conscience? No, I fancied that was how you stood. And the growing beard?”

  She did not laugh.

  “I don’t know about that. All I know is that we’ve had—why am I telling you this? Who are you, Mr. Broad?” He chuckled.

  “Some day I’ll tell you,” he said; “and I promise you that, if you’re handy, you shall be the first to know. Go easy with that boy, Lola.”

  She did not resent the employment of her first name, but rather it warmed her towards this mystery man.

  “And write to Mr. Bron, Assistant Chief Warder of Pentonville Gaol, and tell him that you’ve been called out of town and won’t be able to see him again for ten years.”

  To this she made no rejoinder. He left her at the door of her flat and took her little hand in his.

  “If you want money to get away, I’ll send you a blank cheque,” he said. “There is no one else on the face of the earth that I’d give a blank cheque to, believe me.”

  She nodded, most unusual tears in her eyes. Lola was breaking under the strain, and nobody knew it better than the hawk-faced man who watched her as she passed into her flat.

  XXVIII.

  MURDER

  The stone which woke Ella Bennett was aimed with such force that the pane cracked. She slipped quickly from bed and pulled aside the curtains. There had been a thunderstorm in the night, and the skies were so grey and heavy, and the light so bad, that she could only distinguish the shape of the man that stood under her window. John Bennett heard her go from her room and came to his door.