The Assassination Bureau, Ltd.

by Jack London

  “Dempsey has three broken ribs and right arm paralyzed. Paralysis not permanent. Chief got away.”

  “Chief is still in Chicago but cannot locate him.”

  “St. Louis, Denver, and San Francisco have replied. They tell me I am crazy. Will you please verify?”

  This last wire had been preceded by messages from the three mentioned cities, all incredulous of Starkington’s sanity, and Hall had replied to them as he originally replied to Starkington.

  It was while this muddle was pending that Hall, struck by an idea, sent a long telegram to Starkington and made a still greater muddle.

  “Stop pursuit of Chief. Call a conference of Chicago members and consider following proposition. Judgment of execution of Chief irregular. Chief passed judgment on himself. Why? He must be crazy. It will not be right to kill one who has done no wrong. What wrong has Chief done? Where is your sanction?”

  That this was a poser, and that it stopped Chicago’s hand, was proved by the reply.

  “Have talked it over. You are right. Chief’s judgment on self invalid. Chief has done no wrong. Shall leave him alone. Dempsey’s arm is better. All are agreed that Chief must be crazy.”

  Hall was jubilant. He had played these ethical madmen to the top of their madness. Dragomiloff was safe. That evening he took Grunya to the theatre and to supper and encouraged her with sanguine hopes for her uncle. But on his return home he found a sheaf of telegrams awaiting him.

  “Have received wire from Chicago calling off Chief deal. Your last wire contradicts this. What are we to conclude?

  St. Louis.”

  “Chicago now cancels orders against Chief. By our rules no order ever canceled. What is the matter?

  Denver.”

  “Where is Chief? Why doesn’t he communicate with us? Chicago by latest wire has receded from earlier position. Is everybody crazy? Or is it a joke?

  San Francisco.”

  “Chief still in Chicago. Met Carthey on State Street. Tried to entice Carthey into following him. Then followed Carthey and reproached him. Carthey said nothing doing. Chief very angry. Insists killing order be carried out.

  Starkington.”

  “Chief encountered Carthey later. Committed unprovoked assault on Carthey. Carthey not injured.

  Starkington.”

  “Chief called on me. Upbraided me bitterly. Told him your message had changed our minds. Chief furious. Is he crazy?

  Starkington.”

  “Your interference is spoiling everything. What right have you to interfere? This must be rectified. What are you trying to do? Reply.

  Drago.”

  “Trying to do the right thing. You cannot violate your own rules. Members have no sanction to perform act.”

  was Hall’s reply.

  “Bosh.”

  was Dragomiloff’s last word for the night.

  8

  It was not till eleven on the following morning that Hall received word of Dragomiloff’s next play. It came from the Chief himself.

  “Have sent this message to all branches. Have given it in person to Chicago branch which will verify. I believe that our organization is wrong. I believe all its work has been wrong. I believe every member, wittingly or not, to be wrong. Consider this your sanction and do your duty.”

  Soon the verdicts of the branches began to pour in on Hall, who smiled as he forwarded them to Dragomiloff. One and all were agreed that no reason had been advanced for taking the Chief’s life.

  “A belief is not a sin,” said New Orleans.

  “It is not incorrectness of a belief but insincerity of a belief that makes a crime,” was Boston’s contribution to the symposium.

  “Chief’s honest belief is no wrong,” concluded St. Louis.

  “Ethical disagreement does not constitute any sanction whatever,” announced Denver.

  While San Francisco flippantly remarked, “The only thing for the Chief to do is to retire from control or forget it.”

  Dragomiloff replied by sending out another general message. It ran:

  “My belief is about to take form of deeds. Believing organization to be wrong, I shall stamp out organization. I shall personally destroy members, and if necessary shall have recourse to the police. Chicago will verify this to all branches. I shall shortly afford even stronger sanction for branches to proceed against me.”

  Hall waited for the replies with keen interest, confessing to himself his inability to forecast what this society of righteous madmen would conclude next. It turned out to be a division of opinion. Thus San Francisco:

  “Sanction O.K. Await instructions.”

  Denver advised:

  “Recommend Chicago branch examine Chief’s sanity. We have good sanatoriums up here.”

  New Orleans complained:

  “Is everybody crazy? We are without sufficient data. Will somebody straighten this matter out?”

  Said Boston:

  “In this crisis we must keep our heads. Perhaps Chief is ill. This must be ascertained satisfactorily before any decision is reached.”

  It was after this that Starkington wired to suggest that Haas, Schwartz, and Harrison be returned to New York. To this Hall agreed, but hardly had he got the telegram off, when a later one from Starkington changed the complexion of the situation.

  “Carthey has just been murdered. Police looking for slayer but have no clues. It is our belief that Chief is responsible. Please forward to all branches.”

  Hall, as the focal communicating point of the branches, was now fairly swamped in a sea of telegrams. Twenty-four hours later Chicago had even more startling information.

  “Schwartz throttled at three this afternoon. There is no doubt this time of Chief. Police are pursuing him. So are we. Has dropped from sight. All branches be on the lookout. It means trouble. Am proceeding without sanction of branches, but should like same.”

  And promptly the sanctions poured in on Hall. Dragomiloff had achieved his purpose. At last the ethical madmen were aroused and after him.

  Hall himself was in a quandary, and cursed his ethical nature that made him value a promise. He was convinced, now, that Dragomiloff was really a lunatic, having burst forth from his quiet book-and-business life and become a homicidal maniac. That he had promised a maniac various things brought up the question whether or not, ethically, he was justified in breaking those promises. His common sense told him that he was justified—justified in informing the police, justified in bringing about the arrests of all the members of the Assassination Bureau, justified in anything that promised to put a stop to the orgy of killing that seemed impending. But above his common sense was his ethics, and at times he was convinced that he was as mad as any of the madmen with whom he dealt.

  To add to his perplexity, Grunya, who managed to get his address from the telephone number he had given her, paid him a call.

  “I have come to say goodbye,” was her introduction. “What comfortable rooms you have. And what a curious servant. He never spoke a word to me.”

  “Goodbye?” Hall queried. “Are you going back to Edge Moor?”

  She shook her head and smiled airily.

  “No; Chicago. I am going to find Uncle, and to help him if I can. What last word have you received? Is he still in Chicago?”

  “By the last word . . .” Hall hesitated. “Yes, by the last word he had not left Chicago. But you can’t be of any help, and it is unwise of you to go.”

  “I’m going just the same.”

  “Let me advise you, dear.”

  “Not until the year is up—except in business matters. In fact I came to turn my little affairs over to you. I go on the Twentieth Century this afternoon.”

  Argument with Grunya was useless, but Hall was too sensible to quarrel, and parted from her in appropriate lover fashion, remaining in the headquarters of the Assassination Bureau to manage its lunatic affairs.

  Nothing happened of moment for another twenty-four hours. Then it came, an avalanche of messages, precipitate
d by one from Starkington.

  “Chief still here. Broke Harrison’s neck today. Police do not connect case with Schwartz. Please call for help on all branches.”

  Hall sent out this general call, and an hour later received the following from Starkington:

  “Broke into hospital and killed Dempsey. Has definitely left city. Haas in pursuit. St. Louis take warning.”

  “Rastenaff and Pillsworthy start immediately,” Boston informed Hall.

  “Lucoville has been dispatched to Chicago,” said New Orleans.

  “Not sending anybody. Are waiting for Chief to arrive,” St. Louis advised.

  And then Grunya’s Chicago wail:

  “Have you any later news?”

  He did not answer this, but very shortly received a second from her.

  “Do please help me if you have heard.”

  Hall replied:

  “Has left Chicago. Probably heading towards St. Louis. Let me join you.”

  And to this, in turn, he received no answer, and was left to contemplate the flight of the Chief of the Assassins, pursued by his daughter and the assassins of four cities, and heading towards the nest of assassins waiting in St. Louis.

  Another day went by, and another. The van of pursuers arrived in St. Louis, but there was no sign of Dragomiloff. Haas was reported missing. Grunya could find no trace of her uncle. Only the head of the branch remained in Boston, and he informed Hall that he would follow if anything further happened. In Chicago there was left only Starkington with his broken arm.

  But at the end of another forty-eight hours, Dragomiloff struck again. Rastenaff and Pillsworthy had arrived in St. Louis in the early morning. Each, perforated by a small-calibre bullet, had been carried from his Pullman berth by men sent from the coroner’s office. The two St. Louis members were likewise dead. The head of that branch, the only survivor, sent the information. Haas had reappeared, but no explanation of his four days’ disappearance was vouchsafed. Dragomiloff had again dropped out of sight. Grunya was inconsolable and bombarded Hall with telegrams. The head of the Boston branch sent word that he had started. And so did Starkington, despite his injury. San Francisco was of the opinion that Denver would be the Chief’s next point, and sent two men there to reinforce; while Denver, of the same opinion, kept her two men in readiness.

  All this made big inroads on the emergency fund of the Bureau, and it was with satisfaction that Hall, adhering to his instructions, wired sum after sum of money to the different men. If the pace were kept up, he decided, the Bureau would be bankrupt before the end of the year.

  And then came a slack period. All members having gone to the West, and being in touch with each other there, nothing was left for Hall to do. He endured the suspense and idleness for a day or so; then, making financial arrangements and arranging with the deaf mute for the forwarding of telegrams, he closed up the headquarters of the Bureau and bought a ticket for St. Louis.

  9

  In St. Louis, Hall found no change in the situation. Dragomiloff had not reappeared and everybody was waiting for something to happen. Hall attended a conference at Murgweather’s house. Murgweather was the head of the St. Louis branch, and lived with his family in a comfortable suburban bungalow. All were gathered when Hall arrived, and he immediately recognized Haas, the lean flame of a man, and Starkington he knew by the arm in splints and sling.

  “Who is the man?” demanded Lucoville, the New Orleans member, when Hall was being introduced.

  “Temporary Secretary of the Bureau,” Murgweather started to explain.

  “It is entirely too irregular to suit me,” Lucoville snapped back. “He is not one of us. He has killed no man. He has passed no test of the organization. Not only is his appearance among us unprecedented, but for men who pursue such a hazardous vocation as ours his presence is a menace. And in connection with this, I wish to point out two things. First, by reputation he is known to all of us. I have nothing derogatory to say about his work in the world. I have read his books with interest, and, I may add, profit. His contributions to sociology have been distinct and distinctive. On the other hand, though, he is a socialist. He is called the ‘Millionaire Socialist.’ What does that mean? It means that he is out of touch with us and our principles of conduct. It means that he is a blind creature of Law. Law is his fetish. He grovels in the mire of ignorance and worships Law. To him, we, who are above the Law, are arch-offenders against the Law. Therefore, his presence bodes no good for us. He is bound to destroy us for the sake of his fetish. This is only in the nature of things. This is the dictate of both his personal and his philosophical temperament.

  “And secondly, notice that of all times, it is in this time of crisis to the organization that he has chosen to intrude. Who has vouched for him? Who has admitted him to our secrets? Only one man, and that man the Chief, the one who is now bent on destroying us, who has already killed six of our members and who threatens to expose us to the police. This looks bad, very bad, for him and us. He is the enemy within our ranks. It is my suggestion that we put him away—”

  “Pardon me, my dear Lucoville,” Murgweather interrupted. “This discussion is out of order. Mr. Hall is my guest.”

  “All our heads are in the noose,” retorted the member from New Orleans. “And guest or no guest, this is no time for social amenities. The man is a spy. He is bent on destroying us. I charge him with it in his presence. What has he to say?”

  Hall glanced around at the circle of suspicious faces, and, with the exception of Lucoville, he noted that none was angry. In truth, he decided, they were mad philosophers.

  Murgweather made a vain effort to interpose, but was overruled.

  “What have you to say, Mr. Hall?” Hanover, the head of the Boston branch, demanded.

  “If I may sit down, I shall be glad to reply,” was Hall’s answer.

  Apologies were rendered all around, and he was ensconced in a big armchair that was drawn up to form one of the circle.

  “My reply, like the charges, will be under two heads,” he began. “In the first place, I am bent on destroying your organization.”

  This declaration was received in courteous silence, and the thought came into Hall’s mind that as philosophers and madmen they were certainly consistent. Emotion of every sort was absent from their faces. They waited at scholarly attention for the rest of his discourse. Even Lucoville’s flash of anger had been momentary, and he now sat as composed as the rest.

  “Why I am bent on destroying your organization is too big a subject to open at this moment,” Hall continued. “I may say, in passing, that it is I who am responsible for your Chief’s changed conduct. When I discovered what an extreme ethicist he was, and each of the rest of you, I gave him fifty thousand dollars to accept a commission against himself. I furnished him with a sanction, ethical, of course, and the execution of the commission he turned over to Mr. Haas in my presence. Am I right, Mr. Haas?”

  “You are.”

  “And in my presence, the Chief informed you of my secretaryship. Am I right?”

  “You are.”

  “Now I come to the second head. Why did the Chief trust me with the headquarters management of the Bureau? The answer is simply and directly to the point. He knew that I was at least halfway as ethically mad as the rest of you. He knew that it was impossible for me to break my word. This I have proved by my subsequent actions. I have done my best to fulfill the office of acting secretary. I have forwarded all telegrams, general calls, and orders. I have granted all requests for funds. I shall continue to do as I have agreed, though I hold in detestation and horror, ethically, all that you stand for. I am doing what I believe to be right. Am I right?”

  The pause that followed was very slight. Lucoville arose, walked over to him, and gravely extended his hand. The others did the same. Then Starkington preferred a request that adequate provision be made from the funds of the Bureau for the support of Dempsey’s widow and of Harrison’s widow and children. There was little discussio
n, and when the sums were decided upon, Hall wrote the checks and turned them over to Murgweather to be forwarded.

  The question next taken up was that of the crisis and of how best to cope with the recreant Chief. In this Hall took no part, so that, lying back in his chair, he was able to observe and study these curious madmen. There were seven of them, and, with the exceptions of Haas and Lucoville, they had all the appearance of middle-aged, middle-class, scholarly gentlemen. He could not bring himself to realize that they were cold-blooded murderers, assassins for hire. And by the same token, it was incredible that they who were so calm should be the survivors of the deadly war that was being waged against them. Half of their number were already dead. Hanover was the sole survivor of Boston, Haas of New York, Starkington of Chicago, and their genial and bewhiskered host, Murgweather, of St. Louis.

  “I enjoyed your last book,” Hall’s host leaned over and whispered to him in an interval. “Your argument for organization by industry as against organization by craft was unimpeachable. But to my notion, your exposition of the law of diminishing returns was rather lame. I have a bone to pick with you there.”

  And this man was an assassin!—all these men were assassins! Hall could believe only by accepting them as lunatics. And going into town on the electric car after the meeting, he sat and talked with Haas, and was astounded to find him an ex-professor of Greek and Hebrew. Lucoville proved to be an expert in Oriental research. Hanover, he learned, had once been headmaster of one of the most select New England academies, while Starkington turned out to be an ex-newspaper editor of no mean reputation.