by Frank Froest
The chief-inspector moved to the bed, and took a seat upon it. Heldon Foyle lit a cigar.
‘There are two or three cheque-book counterfoils not quite destroyed,’ went on the man; and, picking them off the coverlet, handed them to Menzies.
‘Very well,’ said Foyle. ‘Mr Menzies and I will go through these things now. You can come to photograph them later on.’
As the experts vanished, Menzies gingerly turned over the charred leaves of the cheque counterfoils.
‘Gwennie made the most of her time,’ he observed; ‘but she seems to have been too much rushed to make a complete job of it. These are drawn on the same bank as Greye-Stratton’s.’
‘Same cheques?’ asked Foyle.
‘Hallett may be able to tell us that. What are these other documents?’
It is a peculiarity of burnt paper that it often shows up quite clearly any writing that was upon it before it was consumed. Menzies wrinkled his brows as he studied the pasted down portions that had been rescued. Some pieces were almost complete; some had broken and twisted under the process of restoration, so that it was a matter of difficulty to follow the eccentricities of the writing, which in some cases stood out dirty grey, in others brilliant black, and still again pale black.
‘Listen to this,’ said Menzies. He read slowly. ‘“We are all right for the time being, and if”—there’s a piece missing there—“can be handled, we shall pull through. Couldn’t you square one of the ’tecs? You know some of them, and it might be worth a shot, as it would simplify things. It’s no good tackling—But a couple of hundred with some of the others ought to go a long way. You can dig the money out, and”—something else gone. “Hallett is most dangerous just now. He absolutely must be settled if we are to pull off the game. That’s up to you, as I’ll have to keep below the water-line.
‘“Better not write to me, but if you can get in touch with Cincinnati he’ll pass me the word. Don’t trust C. too much.” The rest of the letter’s gone,’ finished Menzies.
The superintendent sucked his cigar thoughtfully.
‘That’s Cincinnati Red,’ he commented. ‘You’ll want to collar him. He’s been in London for three months or more … a real dangerous criminal.’
Chief Detective-Inspector Weir Menzies gazed thoughtfully at the fragments of charred paper that littered the table, and mentally resolved that Cincinnati Red should be traced at the earliest possible moment.
‘I’ll have him collared at once,’ he said. ‘The rest of the letters can wait a little.’
Superintendent Foyle stretched out his hand for the blackened epistle.
‘Pity the rest of it’s gone. The chap who wrote this thinks a lot of you, Menzies. He thinks you’re above bribery. I wonder if Gwennie has been trying to buy up any of our men?’
‘The letter’s probably been written this last day or two. There’s been no time yet. I’ll pass the word that whoever is tackled is to bite.’
‘There might be a chance,’ said Foyle. ‘And I’ll tell you what, Menzies. I’ll bet you a thousand pounds to a penny that the gentleman who’s so anxious to keep his head under the water-line is Stewart Reader Ling.’
‘No takers, sir,’ said Menzies, smilingly.
CHAPTER XIV
IN serene unconsciousness that he occupied any place in the thoughts of Scotland Yard, Cincinnati Red sat cross-legged, sipping a liqueur. Of late his lines had fallen in pleasant places. He had tasted sufficiently of the hardships of this world to appreciate comfort. The furnished flat which he held in Palace Avenue by grace of a trustful landlord was a luxury which more than pleased him.
Few there were who knew Cincinnati Red’s real origin or real name. He was certainly a man of education and address. In the police archives he was registered as a ‘con’ man—which in plain English means that he was a swindler. Moreover, he was a swindler of uncommon resource and daring, who had a knowledge of every trick in the game. He had been confidence- man, gold-brick man, sawdust man long before these swindles became threadbare. Although he had had one or two bad falls in his time, he was probably, as he would have put it, ‘ahead in the game’.
He might have been anything from forty to sixty. His luxuriant, once auburn, hair and moustache had greyed, and his ingenuous, frank, hazel eyes were in themselves a guarantee of integrity. He wore evening dress as though he were accustomed to it, and his manner was that of an easy-going, tolerant man of the world who had no enemies and thousands of friends.
Now, an Anglo-American millionaire with a Bohemian taste for night clubs and a cosy flat, to which selected friends of wealth may be invited for ‘no limit’ games of chance, has small fear of the police. It is unlikely that a man who has dropped a hundred or two over baccarat or poker will squeal to the authorities, even though he suspects that something more than luck has favoured his charming host. Publicity does not appeal to him. And for any other than legal contingencies Cincinnati Red was prepared. It caused a bulge in the breast-pocket of his otherwise well-fitting dress-coat, but that could scarcely be avoided. There are few smaller reliable pistols than the pattern of Derringer he carried.
So it was with thoughts far removed from the sordid commonplaces of crime that he pressed the bell with a white forefinger, and summoned his man to help him on with his overcoat. He made his way with dignity down into the street, and stopped for a moment on the curb to light his cigarette.
A couple of men sauntered towards him. The taller of the two halted as they came opposite.
‘Isn’t your name Tompkins?’ he asked.
Cincinnati finished lighting his cigarette, dropped the match, and ground the light out under his heel before replying.
‘No my man,’ he drawled. ‘You’ve made a mistake. My name is Whiffen.’
He calmly ignored his questioner, and held up a slim cane in his left hand for a taxi-cab. Someone gripped his right wrist, and he wheeled in wrathful surprise. As he did so his other hand was caught. He made no resistance. His attitude was one of dignified and lofty indignation.
‘What is the meaning of this? Leave me alone instantly, or I will call the police!’
‘That’s all right,’ observed one of his captors, quietly. ‘We are police officers ourselves. Jump in, Alf—I’ve got him. Now then. All right, driver. Scotland Yard.’
It was as though they were handling a bale of goods, so neatly and impersonally was the whole thing effected. Cincinnati Red had been for once taken off his guard. He was more staggered than his manner showed. That the police should know of his presence in London was not astonishing. It was to be expected. That they should know exactly where to lay hands on him was a different thing. He thought he had covered his traces effectually—that no one could guess that Wilfred S. Whiffen, who lived unostentatiously and well at Palace Avenue, was Cincinnati Red, whose record occupied a prominent place in the police registers of half a dozen countries. What puzzled him still more was the mere fact that, even knowing him, the police should trouble to arrest him. Since his arrival in England there was nothing they could hold against him, as far as he knew. He was as dead certain as he cared to be about anything that none of his victims had invoked the aid of the law.
The only reasonable supposition was that this was a sort of bluff that was intended to frighten him out of the country. He really believed that such things happened. He resolved to sit tight.
‘If you people really are police officers,’ he declared, acidly, ‘this foolishness will cost you your position. I may tell you I am well known in the best circles both here and in New York.’
His captors remained unimpressed. Cincinnati Red had been ‘rubbed down’ before, and he recognised the touch of efficient hands. One of the officers thrust a hand into his breast-pocket, and produced the Derringer.
‘Handy little thing, Alf,’ he commented.
‘Will you answer me, my man?’ said Cincannati, accentuating every word slowly. ‘Am I under arrest, and, if so, what for? I insist on being told. You will hear more
of this.’
He was annoyed in reality, and a vague alarm was growing in his breast.
‘You keep quiet, old lad,’ said one of his captors, with more familiarity than was consistent with the status of Wilfred S. Whiffen, whatever it might be with Cincinnati Red. ‘You’ll learn all about it soon enough. Nobody’s going to hurt you.’
‘That isn’t the point. I insist upon knowing what all this is about. I have an appointment with Lord Windermere and—’
‘He will talk,’ interrupted one of the officers, wearily. ‘Look here, suppose you give it a rest for five minutes? Lord Windermere will have to wait. Oh, here we are!’
Very few criminals are taken to Scotland Yard on detention, whatever the reader of popular fiction is accustomed to suppose. And that fact gave Cincinnati Red something to reflect upon as he was ushered into the soft-carpeted room where Weir Menzies and Heldon Foyle awaited him.
They both rose with the welcoming smile of old acquaintances. His escort had vanished.
‘That you?’ said Foyle, beaming. ‘Well, I’m glad to see you, Cincinnati. You’re looking top-hole, too.’
‘Sit down,’ added Menzies cordially. ‘Hope you’ve not been put to any inconvenience? We told our chaps not to alarm you.’
Cincinnati Red looked from one to the other, suspicion working behind his bland countenance. He had in his time passed through the hands of both the detectives, and it was useless keeping up the pose he adopted with the younger men. Still this assumption of friendliness was beyond him.
‘Well, you’ve got me here, gentlemen,’ he said, suavely. ‘I didn’t invite myself, and I’ve got my business to attend to.’ He pulled off his gloves, and dangled them in one hand. ‘It’s rather rough on a man when he has achieved a position for himself, and is on the level again—’
‘And you’re on the level?’ said Menzies, rolling a pen with the flat of his hand across a blotting-pad. ‘Well, I think it a shame to drag an honest working man’—his eye wandered meditatively over Cincinnati’s faultless evening dress—‘away from his job, especially as the night clubs will soon be open. What line of commerce have you established yourself in?’
Cincinnati returned his glance more hurt than angry.
Foyle struck in before he could reply.
‘Let him alone, Menzies. What’ll you have, Cincinnati? I’ve got some of the real rye here—or would you prefer anything else?’
It is unusual for an officer of the C.I.D. to work with his desk flanked with a decanter of rye whisky. It is still more unusual for him to proffer hospitality to a crook in the very headquarters of police. And Cincinnati became wary. It looked much too much as if this hospitality had been prepared. He did not know what was going to happen, but he wanted to keep his head clear.
‘Nothing, I thank you,’ he said.
‘Just as you like. I thought you might like a drink while we had a talk over things.
Cincinnati knew as well as the men who faced him that the proceedings were totally irregular. They had no shadow of right to detain him while no charge was hanging over his head. He would have been justified in walking straight out of the building. Yet he knew Foyle, and he knew Menzies, and he knew in spite of their apparent friendliness that things might become unpleasant if he took a high line. He flicked a speck of dust off his boots with his glove.
‘Don’t be shy,’ he urged.
‘Where’s Ling?’ questioned Menzies abruptly.
His ruddy face had lost its good nature. He was leaning forward with hard, fierce eyes, barely a couple of inches from the ‘con’ man’s face. The quickness of the question and harshness of his manner were all carefully calculated to make an impression that would throw the other off his balance.
Cincinnati seemed unperturbed.
‘So you’re hunting up Ling. What’s he been doing? Upon my soul, I wish I could help you. I don’t like Ling.’
There was a moment’s silence. Then Foyle twisted his swivel-chair, and lifted one of a row of speaking tubes behind him. It was a simple, undramatic action, but somehow the ‘con’ man’s pulse beats quickened. The superintendent paused with the tube in his hand.
‘You’ve got a clean sheet, of course?’ he asked, and his voice, though quiet, was threatening. ‘Nothing we can hold you for? Or shall I put a wire through to Rome, and Paris, and New York?’
Now, there had been incidents in Cincinnati Red’s career, as in those of every professional crook, when the law had not claimed the penalty which was its due. It sometimes happens that only the most grave of a series of crimes is selected for definite legal punishment. There were cases that still might be proceeded with against the ‘con’ man, if the blue-eyed superintendent chose to induce his international colleagues to rake the cold ashes together.
‘Don’t rush a man!’ protested Cincinnati Red, a little less coolly. ‘I was saying that I’d help you if I could.’
‘Then get on with it,’ snapped Menzies harshly. ‘You’d better tell us all you know. We’re in a hurry.’
‘The Third Degree’ is an institution unknown in English police circles. Nevertheless, the ‘con’ man found certain similarities in the conduct of the swift and relentless examination of the two detectives. They gave him little time for invention, even had he been disposed to mislead them. But like most of his type, he put his own skin first, even if it came to betraying an acquaintance into the hands of justice.
‘Think I’ll have a drink after all,’ he said. He swallowed a draught Foyle handed him in a quick gulp. ‘I’ll trust you not to let any of the boys know I have said anything,’ he declared. ‘I saw Ling about a week ago, and I’ve known he had something big on for some months. You gentlemen know that I used to have considerable dealings with him. He’d shoot on sight if he guessed.’
‘You were one of the leaders in that forged circular note stunt of his,’ remarked Menzies. ‘Yes, we know all about that. Five years you got in Paris, wasn’t it?’
‘Three,’ corrected Cincinnati. ‘You’d have thought,’ he went on, with more bitterness, ‘that he’d have given me the first chance of any fresh job, seeing how I had the brunt of that. If it hadn’t been for an accident we’d have made a pile. But no. He said they were full up.’
The two detectives exchanged glances. Cincinnati Red, clever man though he was, had always been viewed with a certain amount of not altogether unjustified distrust by his associates in the underworld. The phrase in the letter, warning Gwennie not to trust Cincinnati too much, occurred to them.
‘A lucky thing for you, too,’ observed Foyle. ‘Go on.’
‘Well, whatever the job is, Gwennie Lyne is in it. Ling said he might have to lie low for a bit, but there might be a chance for me to come in the game later on. That was to sweeten me, you bet. He wanted me to keep in touch with Gwennie—she lives down at Brixton now—’
‘What address?’ asked Menzies.
There was nothing to be gained by giving Cincinnati Red any hint as to how far they were able to check his story.
He gravely wrote down the address—the correct one—given by the ‘con’ man.
‘Well,’ went on Cincinnati, ‘it’s no good asking me what the job is, because, honest Injun, I don’t know.’ He shot a sideways glance at them. ‘You’ll be more clear on that than I am. All I know is that it’s a big thing.’
‘Do you know a Miss Olney—a Miss Lucy Olney?’
Cincinnati shook his head.
‘Never heard the name before.’
Two pairs of eyes were watching him closely. The chief-inspector gave a slight cough into his moustache. So far the swindler had been convincingly plausible, and, if he were more deeply involved in the mystery than he appeared to be, he had taken a cunning line.
‘How did you come to take a flat in Palace Avenue?’ demanded Foyle.
‘Well,’ said Cincinnati, slowly, ‘I don’t know there was any special reason why I should take it there more than anywhere else—’
‘Answer the que
stion—quick!’ demanded Menzies. ‘Don’t talk round it.’
‘It was Ling who told me the place was to let.’
‘Ah! And I suppose you got your references from him?’
‘That’s so. But don’t run away with any delusions, Mr Menzies. I’ve paid my rent regularly and honestly.’
Cincinnati was plainly grieved at the reflection on his honesty.
‘We’ll take your word for it. But I thought you weren’t very friendly with Ling. Why should he go out of his way to do you a favour?’
Cincinnnati shrugged his shoulders.
‘Oh, it didn’t cost him anything, I suppose. He said he might want me to chip in some time, and it was handy for Gwennie and he to know where I was. He used to run up and see me sometimes. That’s all there is in it.’
‘You haven’t said how you were to communicate with Ling. Where is he?’
‘I don’t know where he is. Last I saw of him was when he used to take meals at the Petite Savoye—you know, that little restaurant in Soho. He hasn’t always been there lately. Sometimes a chap named Dago Sam used to come instead. If I got any urgent message I was to post it to T. S. Charters, Poste Restante, Aldgate.’
Menzies wrote out the address, and looked questioningly at Foyle.
‘That’ll do for the present,’ said the superintendent. ‘The point is, what are we going to do about you?’ He shook his head at the ‘con’ man. ‘You’re an awkward problem, you know.’
‘H’m!’
‘You can trust me, Mr Foyle,’ said Cincinnati. ‘I know when to keep my mouth shut. Why, I might be able to help you to get hold of Ling.’
‘That’s decidedly an idea,’ said Menzies. ‘Wait a minute.’
He dashed outside, and returned accompanied by the men who had captured Cincinnati Red.
‘If you’ll go with these gentlemen, Mr—er—Whiffen,’ he said, politely, ‘Mr Foyle and I will talk things over and see what is to be done.’
CHAPTER XV
A HALF smile of triumph was on Menzies’ face as he returned to his seat.