The Rogues' Syndicate

by Frank Froest

  He relinquished his grip of Sing Loo’s sleeve, and bounded across to the other door. Someone raised himself on an elbow. ‘That you, Menzies?’ drawled a lazy voice. ‘I’ll give you credit for being a hustler when you get on the go. Take that you swine!’

  A streak of flame split the darkness, and a bullet smashed against the wall. Jimmie’s pistol was levelled, and almost in the same instant his shot answered. There was a groan immediately stifled, and then a short laugh.

  ‘Bullseye—five,’ said Ling, in the monotonous chant of the ranges. ‘That’s one I owe you, Master Hallett. You’ve smashed my wrist. Good shooting in this tricky light.’

  The place was filled with a vague vision of crawling forms, all of those who were not too far under the influence of the drug being anxious to get out of the way of the bullets. Jimmie’s muzzle was full on the dark figure of Ling.

  ‘Drop your gun—drop it I say,’ he ordered peremptorily.

  Ling laughed again. ‘All right, sonny, I know when I’ve got enough. Don’t I tell you you’ve smashed my wrist? I aren’t worth a cent at left-hand shooting. Say, your friend Menzies seems to have got his medicine.’

  The chief-inspector had collapsed at the first shot, and though Jimmie was too wary to take his eyes off the master crook, he had an impression of his great bulk lying motionless at the other side of the room.

  ‘Stand up,’ commanded Jimmie. ‘Put your hands up. My God, Ling, I’m only looking for a good excuse to plug you.’ He remembered Peggy and all she had suffered at this man’s hands, and his blood boiled.

  ‘Tut, tut! Let not your angry passions arise.’ Ling might have been remonstrating with a petulant child, but he stood up nevertheless. ‘I tell you I’d got a bullet in my wrist didn’t I? How can I put my hands up? I’ll put one up if that’ll suit you. You’re a smart boy, Hallett, but if you’d been alone I could have handled you.’

  ‘Shut up,’ said Jimmie. ‘I want to think.’

  It was a position not without its difficulties. There would have been a dozen solutions of the problem had Menzies not been laid out. That had been a piece of most execrable luck which had made all the difference. So long as he held his back to the door and his weapon on Ling Jimmie was in command. To remain like that was, however, impossible. Something had to be done, but what, it was hard to decide. For all that he knew the place might be teeming with friends of Ling only waiting for that steady muzzle to waver a second before rushing him. At the best he was confident that five out of every six of those present were crooks and blackguards who would stick at little if it came to the point.

  Ling crystallised his dilemma with a sneer. ‘Say, boy, you’ve got hold of a tiger’s tail, haven’t you? Don’t know whether to keep hold or let go. You take my advice, and run home to your mummy.’

  Jimmie never answered. His lips were firm pressed, and his dogged chin jutted out. Even if he had been able to rush Ling out at the point of the revolver until he found a police officer, he could not leave Menzies. Moreover he had an idea that in any case Ling would not calmly submit to such a programme. He lowered the pistol muzzle a trifle, and his fingers hovered indecisively over the trigger. An easy, simple way would be to maim him, so that he could not get away. A bullet in the leg would do it.

  Yet, when it came to the point, Jimmie could not press the trigger. It was too cold-blooded to shoot down an unarmed man. He wished Ling was not so cool—that he could give him an excuse for an attempt at violence. Otherwise it seemed a stalemate.

  Of course, there was Royal. Sooner or later he would be back, or would send aid of some sort. But then Royal had his hands full for the time, and he might believe that they were capable of coping with the situation without assistance. It might be hours before relief was to be looked for from that quarter.

  ‘Well, what are you going to do about it, sonny?’ asked Ling, coolly. ‘Seems to me that you’ll have to do a heap of thinking before you take me. Meanwhile, if you don’t mind my saying so, my arm’s getting tired.’

  ‘You’ll keep as you are—if you’re wise. I can keep my tiger one way—if he puts temptation in front of me.’

  ‘Right you are,’ acquiesced Ling, cheerfully. ‘I’ll try to endure it, only I just hate to hear your brains creak under the strain.’

  Jimmie could have sworn he had come nearer, yet he had not noticed him move. He strained his eyes, and what he saw made him tighten up. The one hand held by the crook above his head had the two middle fingers and the thumb closed. The first and little finger were extended right out. But Jimmie had seen it before—seen it carried out. Ling was manoeuvring to get within reach of him. Then those two fingers could be used with deadly effect in a leap—one in each eye, and in his blinding agonizing pain he would be at his opponent’s mercy.

  ‘Go back,’ he said crisply. ‘Back three paces. I like you better at a distance.’

  As Ling obeyed, Jimmie turned his eyes for the fraction of a second to the place where he had seen Menzies fall. There was nothing there. Forgetful in his surprise of the importance of watching Ling, he stared blankly wondering if his eyes were playing tricks with him. Menzies had certainly gone.

  His distraction was only momentary, but it was the chance for which the other had been waiting. Swiftly and noiselessly as the tiger, with which he had compared himself, Ling moved. Jimmie fired wildly, and knew instinctively that he had missed. Yet Ling had crashed forward headlong, and was cursing as he squirmed on the boarded floor, struggling to free himself from someone who had gripped him as he fell.

  Then Jimmie understood. Menzies had not been hit at all. He must have foreseen Ling’s purpose, and dropped just the fraction of a second before the bullet sped over his head. Then he must have wormed his way silently across the floor towards the crook, his progress unnoticed among the recumbent forms in the half light.

  After his first vitriolic outburst Ling fought in grim silence. Jimmie dared not leave his post by the door to go to Menzies’ assistance, and he watched breathlessly, wondering if he dared a second shot. He could hear the harsh breathing of the two men, their shuffling on the floor as they manoeuvred for the top position, and now and then the thud of a blow. It ought, he thought, to be a fairly easy thing for Menzies if Ling’s right wrist had been smashed. Then he remembered that the detective also had his left hand injured. In that respect the struggle was nearly equal.

  Once there was a gasp that was almost a groan; once a fierce epithet punctuated the laboured breathing. Though he strained his eyes, Jimmie could not make out in whose favour the struggle was proceeding—he could only see a bundle of twisted, straining forms with first one man on top, and then the other. They rolled over one of the drugged smokers, and he paid no more attention than if he had been a corpse. Then, silhouetted against the gas flame for a tithe of a second was an upraised hand, and below it the fantastic reflection of light on steel.

  Jimmie focused his weapon, but before he could draw a sight another hand grasped the wrist, and wrenched it down. The knife dropped with a little musical tinkle, and the two forms became obscure again. Then he became aware of a man’s head slowly rising into the dim light, and he saw that it was Menzies. The vision was like a badly focused cinema picture. Menzies’ hand was at the other’s throat, and he dragged him slowly, relentlessly upwards, and then suddenly flung all his force downwards. There was a crash as Ling’s skull touched the boards, and the chief-inspector got shakily to his feet. He passed a dazed hand over his forehead, and laughed a trifle shakily.

  ‘I’m getting a bit too fat for this sort of work,’ he said.

  He spoke as though he had been engaged in a football match rather than a life and death struggle. Hallett laughed too, the overstrained laugh of relief. ‘Bully for you,’ he agreed. ‘I thought you were down and out.’

  ‘A close thing,’ admitted the chief-inspector, mopping his brow with a big handkerchief. ‘He had the pull of us. His eyes were used to the light. I just caught him pulling the gun in time and dropped. I
concluded in the circumstances I’d let you play the hand until I got a chance to chip in.’

  ‘How about him?’ asked Jimmie.

  ‘Him! Oh, he’s all right. I’ve not killed him. Only a little tap on the head to knock some of the devilry out of him. You keep on holding up this room full of toughs. I’ll be back in a minute. Don’t let anyone in or out.’

  He slipped by Hallett into the passage. Presently Jimmie heard from without the shrill series of long and short whistles which in the Metropolitan Police is a call for assistance. In two or three minutes Menzies was back, though outside the whistle was repeated.

  ‘We’re all right now,’ he said casually. ‘There’ll be a regular little army here in no time.’

  Jimmie looked at him in astonishment. ‘Well, you take it,’ he said. ‘You come in this place practically single-handed, you lay out Ling, and now he’s there for you to do what you like with, you go and call up help. What do you want more than one or two constables for, anyway? We could have run him up ourselves for that matter.’

  There was a twinkle in Menzies’ eye. He swept a hand round comprehensively. ‘And leave this nest behind us, eh? Don’t forget I’m a policeman, laddie. If I’m engaged in a forgery case it’s no reason I should shut my eyes when I see your pocket being picked.’

  In an incredibly short space of time as it seemed to Jimmie, the place was swarming with policemen. They were prompt and businesslike, and there was no unnecessary fuss. Sing Loo went off, protesting and tearful, between a couple of stalwart constables, and a similar escort was provided for most of his clients who were able to walk. With the others a guard was placed.

  Menzies walked over to Ling, and, lifting his head, forced a flask of brandy between his teeth. The crook sat up and opened his eyes. Then with a sudden movement he knocked the flask away and scowled on the detective.

  ‘You got me,’ he growled deep in his throat. Then with a sudden spasm of energy, ‘By h—, Mr Policeman, you may think you’ve got the odd trick, but the rubber isn’t played out yet.’

  ‘You don’t want to talk for a minute,’ said Menzies, placidly. ‘Better have a drink.’

  CHAPTER XXXII

  THE scar on Ling’s temple was flaming blood-red against the whiteness of his features as they brought him into the cold businesslike atmosphere of the bare charge-room of the police station. His ordinary clothes had been removed when he was searched, and the suit temporarily substituted hung loosely about him. His injured wrist had been bandaged, and he had had doctor’s attention since he had been brought from the opium joint. He looked ill and worn, yet his eyes flamed indomitably as he glanced from one to the other of the little group of men who were awaiting him.

  ‘We’re all here, ain’t we?’ he snarled. ‘Why don’t you get on with the séance?’

  The beast in him was still at the top, but to the men there his words did not at all matter. They were content to know that he had been run down, and they were only concerned to see that he was held in safe keeping till the mechanism of the law had been put into operation. No one resented his manner so long as it did not get to physical violence. He was impersonal—a piece of merchandise that had to be dealt with. When they had done with him he would be put back in a cell like any common drunk and disorderly, and be more or less forgotten when any reasonable physical wants had been attended to.

  That was the impression Jimmie had of these men in his mind. And partly he was right. Yet Menzies at least, though his nonchalant manner did not show it, had a sense of triumph, of work in great part achieved, that made him view Ling with a more personal interest. Ling, as Ling, did not matter to him, but Ling as a symbol of the forces which he had defeated, was of mighty interest.

  The whole scene struck Jimmie as something unreal—like a badly stage-managed, badly acted scene in a play. The spectacular, the melodramatic touch was absent. Ling alone carried his role with anything like the reality of the stage. The grey dawn was filtering through the skylight, yellowing the electric bulbs, yet Menzies did not stalk to the centre of the stage and with outstretched arm denounce the villain of the piece. He was not made up for the part.

  Instead a bare-headed police inspector—Jimmie thought he looked singularly unreal without his cap and sword belt—sauntered casually to the tall charge desk, and leaning one elbow upon it lifted a pen. Ling was standing a few paces away, between a couple of policemen, but not even in the dock. Menzies moved over to the desk, and leaning both arms on the back of it talked to the inspector. Jimmie caught a word or two here and there, but even then he did not realise at first that the charge was being made.

  ‘… wilful murder on the night of … I charge him …

  The inspector’s pen scratched busily. Then, putting the pen in his mouth, he used both hands to blot what he had written, and read it critically before inviting Menzies’ signature.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said politely. ‘Now—’ He raised his head, and looked at the prisoner.

  ‘Stewart Reader Ling, you heard what the chief-inspector said. You are charged with the wilful murder of John Edward Greye-Stratton. No. Keep quiet for a minute—’ He raised a placatory hand as Ling opened his lips—‘if there’s anything you wish to say you may do so, but I shall take it down in writing, and it may be used as evidence against you.’

  ‘You think you can prove that?’ said Ling.

  ‘There are two other charges of murder I may as well tell you will be brought against you later,’ said Menzies, ignoring the question. ‘One is in connection with the death of a fireman in Levoine Street—’

  ‘Here. Hold on a minute, Mr Man. What fireman’s this? I never killed any fireman. There was one knocked out for a while, but he wasn’t killed by a long way.’

  ‘He was killed when the building burnt out. We call that murder. The third case is that of the woman known as Gwennie Lyne whom you are believed to have stabbed tonight.’

  Little wrinkles of profound amusement appeared on Ling’s face. ‘You seem to have got it right in for me,’ he laughed. ‘I reckon you’ll wish you’d been a bit smarter by the time you get through. It’s mournful to see you struggling. You don’t mean that Gwennie got past you with that fake? I didn’t believe she’d pull it off even against you bone-heads.’ He chuckled again as if intensely entertained.

  Several pairs of puzzled eyes were centred on him. All had a suspicion that he was trying to work some new kind of bluff. Menzies alone guessed what he was driving at. He clenched his fist tightly, but kept an unmoved face to the prisoner.

  ‘Gwennie Lyne’s not dead,’ he said, crisply.

  There was not a man in the room who was not startled at the words so casually uttered. Ling’s mouth remained open in ludicrous astonishment, and he would have taken a step towards the chief-inspector had not a touch on his sleeve reminded him of his guard. Then his face relaxed as his keen wits began working.

  ‘You’re a hell of a guesser,’ he retorted. ‘You got me for the minute. I reckon Gwennie is far enough away by this time. She’s not murdered anyway, and I don’t believe I’d have stayed and waited for you if I’d had anything to do with the killing of the others. Gwennie’s the one you want to get. She fixed up the place in Levoine Street, and it was she who did in the old man. You write that down, Benjamin.’ He addressed the inspector at the charge desk.

  ‘So you’re going to lay it all on to her now?’ said Menzies, with a note of scorn in his voice.

  ‘You’d better bet I am, sonny. Gwennie can look after herself. You’ve kept us on the run pretty hot for a day or two, but tonight’s been the limit. The only fault with you as a sleuth, Menzies, is that your imagination doesn’t go far enough.’

  A retort rose to Menzies’ lips, but he suppressed it. He was too old a hand to taunt a prisoner.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ went on Ling. ‘That’s what you want—imagination. I’ll own I didn’t expect you to smell out that opium joint as quick as you did, or we’d never have gone there. We were surprised some when yo
u and the other two walked down the street. I’ll make you a present of that. Your imagination didn’t rise to us having a look-out. If you’d have walked in then you’d have found both the little birdies at home—Gwennie and me. It isn’t exactly a place for a lady, and she had already sent for a cab, not feeling that she could be real homelike there. If we’d known there were only the three of you we might have tried a run in the other direction, but we over-estimated that you’d got the place shut off tighter than you did Levoine Street.

  ‘So we fixed a little stunt for your benefit. You’ll have got the idea by this time. You see she’d got more at stake than I had—me being innocent of all these things you’ve accused me of—so we had to see to get her away first. It was her stunt all through—a fake quarrel in the passage, some flour well rubbed into her face and a touch of brown paint on her dress just above her heart. She looked real ghastly when the cab came up, and I helped her in.

  ‘We reckoned you’d rise to it,’ went on Ling, drily. ‘If the cab did get through, well and good. If it didn’t, why, you wouldn’t keep as close an eye on a corpse as you would on a live woman, and you could trust Gwennie to light out when she saw her chance. Anyway, it was the best we could do in a hurry. I stayed a little longer than I ought. Guess I thought there was time for one more pipe. Anyway, if you think you can touch me for murder you can’t—you’ve got to get her. She’s away by now, so my telling won’t hurt her.’

  He grinned maliciously as he finished. The station officer calmly put down his pen.

  ‘Done?’ he queried.

  ‘That’s all I’ve got to say just now. My lawyer’ll do the talking if you go on with this.’

  ‘Take him below,’ ordered the inspector, and began to gather up his papers.

  Jimmie eagerly turned to Menzies. ‘What do you make of it?’ he asked. ‘How did you know about Gwennie? I’ve been with you ever since, and—’