The Rogues' Syndicate

by Frank Froest

  ‘Ling is a judge of character,’ he said, with a contemptuous jerk of his head in the direction of the door. ‘That chap would sell his father and mother and brothers and sisters to save his own skin. Pah!’

  ‘Handle him gently, all the same,’ exhorted the superintendent. ‘He’s a nasty man to get in a corner. He had a shot at me once in a saloon, and if I hadn’t been a quick shot with a beer-bottle—well, I wouldn’t be talking to you now. Hallo! Good-evening, Sir Hilary.’

  The gaunt figure of the assistant-commissioner had entered the room, an open newspaper in his hand.

  ‘Good-evening. They told me you were here, Menzies. Seen the Evening Comet? They’ve got a new clue for you. Seems that Greye-Stratton was a defaulting member of the Black Hand. It’s true, because its special commissioner has found certain cabalistic marks chalked on the pavement which no one is able to decipher. Here’s a photograph. “Scotland Yard”—that’s one of you two, I suppose—“is extremely reticent, and would express no opinion when approached on the subject.” Two columns.’

  ‘So that tomfool published it,’ said Foyle, his eyes twinkling behind his glasses. ‘He found some Boy Scout marks about a hundred yards away from the house, and came up here full of it. He wasn’t quite sure whether it was the Black Hand or the Red Hand, but he’s certain he’s on the track, and he left a photograph for you, Menzies.’

  ‘Obliged, I’m sure,’ said the chief-inspector shortly.

  ‘How are things shaping?’ asked Thornton.

  ‘Moderate, sir—moderate,’ answered Menzies. ‘We’ve just been talking to a gentleman who may be of some use, but I’m not dead certain yet.’ He fished in his pocket and produced some notes. ‘We’ve brushed away a lot of the fog at the beginning of the case, and we’ve got something to concentrate on. I never like to be confident, but we’ve got heaps of suspicion to bring against one or two people, and the evidence may come along. It makes it easier, in a way, that some of them are known crooks.’

  Thornton was standing in front of the fireplace, his hands behind his back. He jerked his coat-tails to and fro.

  ‘I don’t follow that altogether. I used to understand that it was easier to run down an amateur than a professional. Surely their experience will help ’em to blind the trail.’

  ‘That’s partly right,’ agreed Menzies, ‘but it cuts both ways. I can judge of my difficulties. Now, I’m not clear about a lot of things, but I’ve got ideas which I’ve not reported yet, because they may turn out all wrong. The point on which we are clear now is that robbery—at least, straightforward robbery—was not the motive of the murder. Revenge is a possibility. Errol—Greye-Stratton’s stepson—hated him like poison, and it is clear that the old man dreaded some attempt on his life, though that may have been pure monomania with no foundation of fact at all.

  ‘All the same Errol is the pivot on which we have to work—I, at one time, supposed him the actual murderer. I am not so certain now. But here it is. Errol—by the way, we haven’t found what name he passes under yet—and his sister are living in London apart from each other and apart from the old man. He has been cut out of the will. She is sole heiress. She is quietly married to Stewart Reader Ling—Errol’s pal. Do you follow me, sir?’

  ‘That’s plain—and plausible as far as it goes,’ said Sir Hilary. ‘It supplies a powerful motive. But to be frank, it doesn’t do much else.’

  ‘I don’t pretend it does,’ said Menzies. ‘It would be pretty thin to put before a jury by itself, as you say. But now we come to Hallett. He hears a quarrel in the fog. A woman pursued by a man rushes up to him and puts a bundle of cheques into his hand. He goes to Greye-Stratton’s house, and is admitted about the time of the murder, and knocked out by a man whose face he never saw. Twice he was brought into contact with a man—or possibly two men—who must know a great deal about the case, and yet he never saw them.’

  ‘I thought you were convinced of his honesty,’ said Thornton. ‘I myself believe he’s perfectly straight.’

  ‘Wait a minute,’ said Foyle.

  ‘I think so, too,’ went on Menzies. ‘But this is significant. Does the man who was in the fog, does the man who was in the house, know that Hallett never saw his features? We get the attempt to silence him first by threats, then by a pistol shot, then by abduction. This part, at any rate, links up some evidence. Miss Greye-Stratton’s name is used as a lure to get him to Gwennie Lyne’s house. If she wrote the note herself—and mind you we’ve no proof she didn’t—that connects her with Gwennie and the rest. I’m pretty positive in my own mind that she was the woman of the fog, and that Hallett knows it—and she knows he knows. That’s by the way. We carry the linking up closer by at least one of the burnt notes we found—the others don’t much matter at this stage—which warns Gwennie Lyne that Hallett must be silenced at all costs. We think that’s Ling’s writing, and may be able to prove it. We’ve got collaboration in some plot—whether it’s the murder of Greye-Stratton or not—partly established at any rate.’

  ‘But the cheques,’ said Thornton. ‘How do you explain the cheques?’

  ‘I don’t. I’ll own they’re beyond me at the moment. None of our inquiries have thrown any light on that, though we found some burnt stubs which may be the counterfoils in Gwennie’s grate. However, that may be one of those things capable of a quite simple explanation at the right moment. Now, there’s the man we’ve just been talking to—Cincinnati Red. Of course, he’s a crook, and he wouldn’t show up well under cross-examination if we should want to put him in the box. But what he says goes to help my ideas. He points out that Ling and Gwennie have had some big scheme on about which they’ve been very close.’ He stuck his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets. ‘I’ll not deny that I may have built up the wrong theory—time will show—but it’s got a framework of facts, and I can’t see that they fit any other theory.’

  ‘How about Miss Greye-Stratton—Mrs Ling?’ asked Foyle.

  Menzies scratched an eyebrow.

  ‘She’s difficult,’ he admitted. ‘Whether she’s deliberately in the game or not it’s hard to say. I’d like to get at the back of her mind. She doesn’t strike me as the type of woman likely to be made a dupe of, and I’m inclined to think she’s in it somewhere of her own free will. She’s told Hallett something too, but she seems to have hypnotised him. He’s as tight as a nut when it comes to her. I’ve got hopes that I may make him see reason, and then I shall have something to go on from the inside.’

  ‘You’re going out with Cincinnati?’ said the superintendent, switching off the discussion. ‘I know you’re prejudiced against firearms, but even if you are I think I’d put one in my pocket. You want to take care with the mob you’re handling.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Menzies, casually. ‘I’d as likely as not hit the wrong person if I pulled a trigger. I’m taking Royal. He can have one, if he likes. He’s out looking after Hallett just now. The pair of them are eating somewhere. I daren’t leave that young man alone, or he’ll be trying the amateur detective game again.’

  ‘Please yourself then. Only don’t blame me if Ling and his pals lay you out.’

  ‘I’ll look after that,’ retorted Menzies.

  He disappeared into his own room, and changed the ink-stained alpaca jacket of office use for a tweed one. Then he sent a messenger out for Royal. The detective-sergeant and Jimmie Hallett shortly appeared. Menzies took them along to the subdued ‘con’ man, who was smoking his twelfth cigarette, and returning curt monosyllables to the attempts of one of his guardians to drag him into conversation.

  ‘Here we are, Cincinnati,’ announced the chief-inspector cheerily. ‘Think we were never coming? This is a fellow-countryman of yours, Mr Hallett—Mr Whiffle.’

  ‘Whiffen,’ corrected Cincinnati Red.

  ‘Oh, yes. I beg your pardon. Whiffen it is. To us and to some of the central office folk he answers to the name of Cincinnati Red.’

  A flush mounted Cincinnati Red’s handsome face. It wa
s a curious thing that this man, known as a cunning felon in a dozen countries, should resent the tactlessness that introduced him to a fellow American by a nickname. He bowed austerely.

  ‘We thought of taking a walk down to the Petite Savoye,’ went on Menzies. ‘We might see that pal of yours there.’

  ‘Oh, come I say,’ remonstrated Cincinnati. ‘That’s going a bit beyond it. If anyone saw me getting around with a couple of police officers where would I be?’

  He spread his hands in protest.

  ‘It would get you on bad terms with the boys, wouldn’t it?’ said Menzies. ‘Kind of hurt your reputation.’

  Cincinnati Red was plainly alarmed at the course events were taking. He was not a coward, but he never asked for trouble. To give Ling away was one thing—to seek him out bare-faced in the company of detectives was quite another. Apart from any danger which Ling himself might threaten, it would be advertising himself to the whole of the underworld as a man definitely unfit to be trusted. Although his present prospects were favourable enough, there might at any moment arise an occasion for him to co-operate with acquaintances in some fresh nefarious scheme.

  ‘It isn’t that,’ he explained. ‘If I were seen walking with you it would give the game away.’

  The chief-inspector twisted his fingers in his watch-chain. He was as well aware of the course of Cincinnati’s thoughts as the ‘con’ man himself.

  ‘Comfort yourself, laddie,’ he remarked. ‘We aren’t quite so green as that. Mr Hallett here will walk with you, and Royal and I will look after ourselves. If you meet Ling, or anyone else in his mob, all you’ve got to do is to button the top button of your jacket. Savvy?’

  ‘That’s all right,’ said Cincinnati.

  ‘And—just in case of accidents—Mr Hallett’s name is Mr Green—Mr Samuel Green.’

  ‘Samuel Green it is. I understand, Mr Menzies.’

  Jimmie Hallett found the walk through the West End streets not without interest. Had not the circumstances of the introduction told him that Mr Whiffen was a crook, he would have had difficulty in arriving at a conclusion. Cincinnati Red could be a delightful companion when he chose. It was part of his profession. He had read widely and well, and his study of human nature had been vast. As a student of the newspapers, he knew that Jimmie had been the first to raise an alarm after the murder, but not until now had he supposed that Ling had any connection with the crime. He laid himself out to pump Jimmie, but with little enough success. Hallett was willing enough to talk, but Cincinnati speedily found that he was expected to provide any loose information that might be floating around, instead of obtaining it. He dropped finesse, and tried the point blank method.

  ‘This is a rotten business for anyone from across the water to walk into, just when they are expecting to enjoy themselves. I’d just hate to be worried if I were in your place. How’d it come about, anyway? Did you know Greye-Stratton before?’

  ‘It’s a long story,’ parried Jimmie, warily. ‘What about this Ling man? Known him long?’

  ‘Some years,’ said Cincinnati. ‘You must not imagine, Mr Hallett, that because of the circumstances in which we’ve met I am just a crook. I’ve had misfortunes. I made a mistake once, and I’ve paid for it. You know what the police are—they’re the same all over the world. They don’t forgive men for rising over their dead selves. I’ve come to this country to start over again, and my hands are clean. Yet here I am pulled into this because I once knew Ling. You saw the offensive manner of that ill-bred vulture Menzies just now. I daren’t resent it.’

  Jimmie had heard the same story, put more crudely, it might be, but in substance the same, in many courts. Police persecution is an unfailing text for the habitual criminal. He scrutinised Mr Whiffen with smiling incredulity.

  Cincinnati laughed.

  ‘I see you didn’t come up yesterday, Mr Hallett. You’re thinking of my gall to try and hook you under the eyes of Scotland Yard.’

  ‘Don’t ask me to sit in a poker game,’ said Jimmie frankly, ‘because I won’t. And my money’s got chains on it for anything else. Now tell me. Did you ever meet Ling’s wife?’

  ‘His wife?’ ejaculated Cincinnati. ‘I didn’t know he was married.’

  ‘I was wondering,’ said Jimmie. ‘That is all.’

  He followed Cincinnati through the swing doors of the Petite Savoye, and a waiter glided forward to lead them to a table. Cincinnati brushed him aside, and led the way through the throng of diners to a further room. Jimmie Hallett had to seek the support of a chair to steady himself. He heard Cincinnati Red speaking as one far off.

  ‘Hallo, old man! How are you? Shake hands with my friend here—Mr Samuel G. Green, from Mobile.’

  The clean-shaven, keen-eyed man whom Cincinnati had omitted to name was shaking hands with him across the table. But Jimmie paid little attention to him, for by his side, half risen from her chair, wide-eyed and astonished, was Peggy Greye-Stratton.

  CHAPTER XVI

  ‘YOU?’ she gasped. ‘You here?’

  He, too, was taken aback. For a moment he was incapable of consecutive thought. He had fiercely combatted, even to himself, Menzies’ theory that she was a willing associate of the people who were being hunted down. But this encounter staggered him. If the Scotland Yard man’s suspicions were right, it was not at all a surprising thing that she should be dining quietly with Ling—Ling, her husband, and the master brain of the conspiracy. Yet so assiduously had Jimmie accustomed himself to believe that she was a victim rather than an accomplice, that her presence came upon him as a shock.

  ‘You know my—this lady?’ someone said, as though mildly interested.

  Jimmie pulled himself together. This was no time for considered action. He threw a backward glance at the door. Menzies and Royal had not yet appeared.

  ‘We have met before,’ he answered, with a fine assumption of coolness. ‘Miss Olney, isn’t it? Can I have a word with you?’ He beckoned her aside, the eyes of the other two men following them with curiosity. ‘Is that man Ling?’ he whispered.

  ‘Yes,’ she answered. ‘What—’

  He cut her short.

  ‘This is no time for questions. The police are immediately behind us. They are going to arrest him—and maybe you, too. You must get away at once.’ He signalled to a waiter. ‘Is there another way out? Some people are coming in at the front whom we don’t want to meet.’

  A gleam of gold between his fingers transformed the waiter into a quick ally.

  ‘If you will step this way, sir—this way, madam.’

  He pushed forward half a dozen steps, and flung open a door. They descended a couple of steps into a deserted side street, and Ling, who had watched them with a puzzled frown, turned to Cincinnati as they disappeared.

  ‘What in thunder’s the game?’

  ‘Blessed if I know,’ said Cincinnati. ‘Who’s your lady friend? She seemed surprised to see my friend.’

  He was fumbling with the buttons of his coat.

  Suspicion sat black and lowering on Ling’s face. His hand dropped to his jacket-pocket, and Cincinnati had a little apprehensive thrill as he heard a faint click, and the bottom corner of the jacket-pocket poked over the edge of the table. He longed to look round to see if Menzies had entered the room, but he dared not turn his head. A waiter glided to his side, and as he picked up the menu-card, and with deliberation gave his orders, he felt Ling’s menacing gaze still upon him. The waiter moved away.

  ‘There’s something fishy about all this,’ said Ling, in a voice whose lowness hid nothing of an intensity of passion. ‘By Gad, I’ll plug if you don’t tell me what’s on! What are you doing with Hallett? Why did you bring him here? Answer! If you move, or turn a hair, I’ll blow a hole through you, you dog!’

  Cincinnati had no opportunity to wonder how Ling had come to guess Hallett’s identity. He was between the devil and the deep sea, with the detectives behind him and a desperate man in front.

  ‘Easy does it, Stewart,’ he s
aid, soothingly—‘easy does it! I couldn’t help myself.’

  Between clenched teeth Ling spat a vicious oath at him. His eyes shot up and down the crowded aisles of the restaurant, always coming back to Cincinnati’s red face. There was a white scar an inch long above his left eye which now showed crimson, giving him an indescribably sinister appearance. He withdrew his right hand from his pocket, keeping it concealed with a serviette. The serviette lay carelessly crumpled in front of him, and his hand was under it.

  ‘See that?’ he growled, menacingly. ‘There’s two men just come in. Pals of yours, I guess. You’d better get your thinking apparatus started, for if those bulls attempt to come near me, it’s going to be an almighty bad time for you. You’d try to put it across me, you sneak! I tell you, if I go out of this place with the cuffs on, you’ll go out feet first. Think it over quick, you dirty squealer!’

  Cincinnati Red was frightened—badly frightened—though his face did not show it, save perhaps that it was whiter than usual. The waiter placed a plate of soup before him, and his hand was steady as he lifted the spoon. Ling himself, in spite of his passion, had lowered rather than increased his tone, and not a soul in the room beyond themselves knew that they were within measurable distance of tragedy.

  ‘That back door those others used,’ be said, quickly; ‘slip out. I’ll hold the ’tecs back.’

  The serviette stirred impatiently.

  ‘I don’t think it matters, my son. You don’t leave me yet awhile. You’ll stick closer to me than a brother. I’ll trust you—while my finger’s on a trigger and I’ve got you covered.’

  Menzies and Royal had seated themselves three or four tables away. Nothing seemingly was of less interest to them than the two crooks—one of them had just finished his dinner and the other just begun.

  ‘I can’t think of anything,’ protested Cincinnati, sullenly.

  ‘How much do they know?’ asked Ling sharply.

  ‘They raided Gwennie’s shanty this morning. They’re after her, but you mainly.’