The Black Gang

by Sapper

  “What did you mean when you gave me that warning before dinner? That man is one of the leading citizens of Sheffield.”

  “That was just a little jest, Mr Latter, to amuse you during the evening. The danger does not lie there.”

  “Where does it lie?”

  “Probably where you least expect it,” returned Drummond with an enigmatic smile.

  “I shall be going tomorrow,” said Latter with attempted nonchalance. “Until then I rely on you.”

  “Precisely,” murmured Drummond. “So you have completed your business here quicker than you anticipated.”

  “Yes. To be exact, this afternoon before you arrived.”

  “And was that the business which brought you to Sheffield?”

  “Principally. Though I really don’t understand this catechism, Mr Drummond. And now I wish to go to sleep…”

  “I’m afraid you can’t, Mr Latter. Not quite yet.” For a moment or two Charles Latter stared at the imperturbable face at the foot of his bed: it seemed to him that a strange tension was creeping into the conversation – a something he could not place which made him vaguely alarmed.

  “Do you think this mysterious Black Gang would approve of your business this afternoon?” asked Drummond quietly.

  Mr Latter started violently.

  “How should I know of what the scoundrels would approve?” he cried angrily. “And anyway, they can know nothing about it.”

  “You feel quite confident in Mr Delmorlick’s discretion with regard to the friends he selects?”

  And now a pulse was beginning to hammer in Mr Latter’s throat, and his voice when he spoke was thick and unnatural.

  “How do you know anything about Delmorlick?”

  Drummond smiled. “May I reply by asking a similar question, Mr Latter? How do you?”

  “I met him this afternoon on political business,” stammered the other, staring fascinated at the man opposite, from whose face all trace of buffoonery seemed to have vanished, to be replaced by a grim sternness the more terrifying because it was so utterly unexpected. And he had thought Drummond a fool…

  “Would it be indiscreet to inquire the nature of the business?”

  “Yes,” muttered Latter. “It was private.”

  “That I can quite imagine,” returned Drummond grimly. “But since you’re so reticent I will tell you. This afternoon you made arrangements, perfect in every detail, to blow up the main power station of the Greystone works.” The man in the bed started violently. “The result of that would have been to throw some three thousand men out of work for at least a couple of months.”

  ‘’It’s a lie,’’ said Latter thickly.

  “Your object in so doing was obvious,” continued Drummond. “Money. I don’t know how much, and I didn’t know who from – until last night.” And now Latter was swallowing hard, and clutching the bedclothes with hands that shook like leaves.

  “You saw me last night, Mr Latter, didn’t you? And I found out your headquarters…”

  “In God’s name – who are you?” His voice rose almost to a scream. “Aren’t you the police?”

  “No – I am not.” He was coming nearer, and Latter cowered back, mouthing. “I am not the police, you wretched thing: I am the leader of the Black Gang.”

  Latter felt the other’s huge hands on him, and struggled like a puny child, whimpering, half sobbing. He writhed and squirmed as a gag was forced into his mouth: then he felt a rope cut his wrists as they were lashed behind his back. And all the while the other went on speaking in a calm, leisurely voice.

  “The leader of the Black Gang, Mr Latter: the gang that came into existence to exterminate things like you. Ever since the war you poisonous reptiles have been at work stirring up internal trouble in this country. Not one in ten of you believe what you preach: your driving force is money and your own advancement. And as for your miserable dupes – those priceless fellows who follow you blindly because – God help them, they’re hungry and their wives are hungry – what do you care for them, Mr Latter? You just laugh in your sleeve and pocket the cash.”

  With a heave he jerked the other on to the floor, and proceeded to lash him to the foot of the bed.

  “I have had my eye on you, Mr Latter, since the Manchester effort when ten men were killed, and you were the murderer. But other and more important matters have occupied my time. You see, my information is very good – better than Delmorlick’s selection of friends. The new devoted adherent to your cause this afternoon happens to be an intimate, personal friend of mine.”

  He was busying himself with something that he had taken from his pocket – a thick, square slab with a hole in the centre.

  “I admit that your going to the police with my note surprised me. And it really was extraordinarily lucky that I happened to be in the office at the time. But it necessitated a slight change of plan on my part. If dear old McIver and his minions are outside the house, it’s much simpler for me to be in. And now, Mr Latter – to come to business.”

  He stood in front of the bound man, whose eyes were rolling horribly.

  “We believe in making the punishment fit the crime. This afternoon you planned to destroy the livelihood of several thousand men with explosive, simply that you might make money. Here,” he held up the square slab, “is a pound of the actual gun-cotton, which was removed from Delmorlick himself before he started on a journey to join my other specimens. I propose to place this slab under you, Mr Latter, and to light this piece of fuse which is attached to it. The fuse will take about three minutes to burn. During that three minutes if you can get free, so much the better for you; if not – well, it would be a pity not to have any explosion at all in Sheffield, wouldn’t it?”

  For a moment or two Drummond watched the struggling, terrified man, and his eyes were hard and merciless. Then he went to the door, and Latter heard it opened and shut and moaned horribly. His impotent struggles increased: out of the corner of his eye he could see the fire burning nearer and nearer. And then all of a sudden something seemed to snap in his brain…

  Four minutes later Drummond came out from the screen behind which he had been standing. He picked up the burnt-out fuse and the block of wood to which it had been attached. Then he undid the ropes that bound the other man, removed the gag and put him back into bed. And after a while he nodded thoughtfully.

  “Poetic justice,” he murmured. “And it saves a lot of trouble.” Then, after one searching look round the room, he turned out the light and stepped quietly into the passage.

  “An extraordinary thing, McIver,” said Sir Bryan Johnstone, late on the afternoon of the following day. “You say that when you saw Mr Latter this morning he was mad.”

  “Mad as a hatter, sir,” answered McIver, turning for confirmation to Drummond, who was sprawling in a chair.

  “Absolutely up the pole, Tum-tum,” agreed Drummond.

  “Gibbered like a fool,” said McIver, “and struggled wildly whenever he got near the foot of the bed. Seemed terrified of it, somehow. Did you notice that, Mr Drummond?”

  “My dear old lad, it was only ten o’clock, and I was barely conscious,” yawned that worthy, lighting a cigarette.

  “Well, anyway, you had no trouble with the gang, McIver,” said his chief.

  “None, sir,” agreed the Inspector. “I thought they wouldn’t try it on with me twice. I heard some fool story just before I caught the train, about one of the night-watchmen at a big works who swears he saw a sort of court-martial – he was an old soldier – being held on three men by a lot of black-masked figures. But a lot of these people have got this yarn on the brain, Sir Bryan. It’s spread a good deal farther than I thought.”

  Sir Bryan nodded thoughtfully.

  “I must say I’d like to know what sent Charles Latter mad!” Drummond sat up lazily.
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  “Good heavens! Tumkins, don’t you know? The house-party, old son – the house-party; they had to be seen to be believed.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  In which an Effusion is Sent to the Newspapers

  Take a garrulous night-watchman and an enterprising journalist; mix them together over one, or even two glasses of beer, and a hard-worked editor feels safe for a column every time. And since the night-watchman at Greystone’s Steel Works was very garrulous, and the journalist was young and ambitious, the result produced several columns of the sort of stuff that everybody likes to read, and pretends he doesn’t.

  Mr Day was the night-watchman’s name, and Mr Day was prepared to tell his story at a pint a time to anyone who cared to listen. It differed in detail, the difference depending entirely on the number of payments received during the day, but the essential part remained the same. And it was that essential part that was first published in one of the local Sheffield papers, and from there found its way into the London Press.

  Mr Day, it appeared, had, according to his usual custom, been making his hourly tour of the works. It was about midnight, or perhaps a little after, that he thought he heard the sound of voices coming from the central power-station. As he approached, it had seemed to him that it was more lit up than it had been on his previous round, when only one electric light had been burning. He was on the point of opening the door to go in and investigate, when he heard at least half a dozen voices speaking angrily, and one in particular had stood out above the others. It was loud and convulsed with passion, and on hearing it Mr Day, remembering his wife and four children, had paused.

  “You damned traitor, as sure as there’s a God above, I’ll kill you for this some day.”

  Such were the words which it appeared had given Mr Day cause for reflection. At any time, and in any place, they would be apt to stand out from the ordinary level of bright chat; but as Mr Day remarked succinctly, “they fair gave me the creeps, coming out o’ that there place, which was hempty, mind you, not ’alf an hour before.”

  And there are few, I think, who can blame him for his decision not to open the door, but to substitute for such a course a strategic move to a flank. There was an outside flight of steps leading to a door which opened on to the upstairs platform where stood the indicator board. And half-way up that flight of stairs was a window – a window through which Mr Day was peering a few seconds afterwards.

  It was at this point in the narrative that Mr Day was wont to pause, while his listeners drew closer. Standing between the four huge dynamos which supplied the whole of the power necessary for the works were ten or a dozen men. Three of them had their hands lashed behind their backs, and these were the only three whose faces he could see. The others – and here came a still more impressive pause – were completely covered in black from head to foot. Black masks – black cloaks, the only difference between them being in height. He couldn’t hear what was being said: ever since the Boer War Mr Day had been a little hard of hearing. But what it reminded him of was a drum-head court-martial. The three men whose hands were lashed behind them were the prisoners; the men in black, standing motionless round them, their judges. He heard vaguely the sound of a voice which went on speaking for some time. And since the three bound men seemed to be staring at one of the masked figures, he concluded that that must be the speaker. Then he saw the masked men surround the other three closely, and when they stood back again Mr Day noticed that the prisoners had been gagged as well as bound. It was at this moment, apparently, that a hazy idea of going for the police penetrated his brain for the first time, but it was too late. Powerless in the hands of their captors, the three men were forced to the door, and shortly afterwards Mr Day affirmed that he heard the sound of a car driving off. But he was unable to swear to it; he was still flattening a fascinated nose against the window; for two of the masked men had remained behind, and Mr Day wasn’t going to miss anything.

  These two gathered together into bundles a lot of things that looked like wooden slabs – also some stuff that looked like black cord. Then they walked carefully round the whole power station, as if to make sure that nothing had been left behind. Apparently satisfied with their inspection, they went to the door, carrying the bundles they had collected. They turned out all the lights except the one which had originally been burning, took one final look round to make certain that everything was as it should be, and then they, too, vanished into the night, leaving Mr Day to scratch his head and wonder if he had been dreaming.

  In fact, but for one indisputable certainty, it is very doubtful whether Mr Day’s story would have been received with the respect which it undoubtedly deserved. When he first recounted it there were scoffers of the most incredulous type; scoffers who cast the most libellous reflections on the manner in which Mr Day had spent the evening before going on duty, and it was not until the fact became established two or three days later that three men who should have come to work the next morning at their different jobs not only failed to appear, but had completely disappeared, leaving no trace behind them, that the scoffers became silent. Moreover, the enterprising journalist came on the scene, and Mr Day became famous, and Mr Day developed an infinite capacity for beer. Was not he, wildly improbable though his story might be, the only person who could throw any light at all on the mysterious disappearance of three workmen from Sheffield? Certainly the journalist considered he was, and proceeded to write a column of the most convincing journalese to proclaim his belief to the world at large, and Sheffield in particular.

  Thus was the ball started. And no sooner had it commenced to move than it received astonishing impetus from all sorts of unexpected directions. The journalist, in his search for copy to keep his infant alive, discovered to his astonishment that he had unearthed a full-grown child. The activities of the Black Gang were not such a profound mystery as he had at first thought. And though he failed to get the slightest clue as to the identity of the men composing it, he was soon absolutely convinced of the truth of Mr Day’s story. But there he stuck; the whole matter became one of conjecture in his mind. That there was a Black Gang, he was certain; but why or wherefore was beyond him.

  Men he encountered in odd places were non-committal. Some obviously knew nothing about it; others shrugged their shoulders and looked wise.

  There was one group of youngish men he approached on the matter. They were standing at the corner of the long street which led from Greystone’s Works, muttering together, and their conversation ceased abruptly as he sauntered up.

  “Journalist, are you?” said one. “Want to know about this ‘ere Black Gang? Well, look ’ere, mister, I’ll tell you one thing. See them furnaces over there?”

  He pointed to the ruddy, orange light of Greystone’s huge furnaces, glowing fiercely against the evening sky.

  “Well, if me and my mates ever catch the leader of that there gang, or anybody wot’s connected with it, they goes in them furnaces alive.”

  “Shut up, yer blasted fool!” cried one of the others.

  “Think I’m afraid of that bunch!” snarled the first speaker. “A bunch wot’s frightened to show their faces…”

  But the journalist had passed on.

  “Don’t you pay no attention to them young fools, mate,” said an elderly, quiet-looking man, who was standing smoking in a doorway a few yards on. “They talks too much and they does too little.”

  “I was asking them about this so-called Black Gang,” said the searcher after news.

  “Ah!” The elderly man spat thoughtfully. “Don’t profess to know nothing about them myself; but if wot I’ve ’eard is true, we could do with a few more like ’em.”

  And once more the journalist passed on.

  The police refused point-blank to make any communications on the matter at all. They had heard Mr Day’s story, and while not disposed to dismiss it entirely, they would not say that they were prep
ared to accept it completely; and since it was a jolly day outside, and they were rather busy, the door was along the passage to the left.

  Such were the ingredients, then, with which one, and sometimes two columns daily were made up for the edification of the inhabitants of Sheffield. Brief notices appeared in one or two of the London dailies, coupled with the announcement that Mr Charles Latter had suffered a nervous breakdown, and that this well-known MP had gone into a nursing-home for some weeks. But beyond that the matter was too local to be of importance, until a sudden dramatic development revived the flagging interest in Sheffield, and brought the matter into the national limelight.

  It was nothing more nor less than an announcement purporting to come from the leader of the Black Gang himself, and sent to the editor of the Sheffield paper. It occupied a prominent position in the centre page, and was introduced to the public in the following words:

  “The following communication has been received by the editor. The original, which he has handed over to the proper authorities, was typewritten; the postmark was a London one. The editor offers no comment on the genuineness of the document, beyond stating that it is printed exactly as it was received.”

  The document ran as follows:

  “In view of the conflicting rumours started by the story of Mr Day, the night-watchman at Greystone’s Works, it may be of interest to the public to know that his story is true in every detail. The three men whom he saw bound were engaged at the instigation of others in an attempt to wreck the main power station, thereby largely increasing unemployment in Sheffield, and fomenting more unrest. The driving force behind this, as behind other similar activities, is international. The source of it all lies in other countries; the object is the complete ruin of the great sober majority of workers in England by a loud-voiced, money-seeking minority which is composed of unscrupulous scoundrels and fanatical madmen. For these apostles of anarchy a home has been prepared, where the doctrines of Communism are strictly enforced. The three men who have disappeared from Sheffield have gone to that home, but there is still plenty of room for others. Mr Charles Latter has gone mad, otherwise he would have accompanied them. The more intelligent the man, the more vile the scoundrel. Charles Latter was intelligent. There are others more intelligent than he. It is expressly for their benefit that the Black Gang came into being. (Signed) THE LEADER OF THE GANG.”