Elk 01 The Fellowship of the Frog

by Edgar Wallace

  “Come right in out of the rain, Elk,” he said, and Elk obeyed.

  “Been doing your Sunday shopping?” he asked innocently.

  The man’s hawk-like face relaxed into a smile.

  “I never eat on Sundays,” he said.

  It was Joshua Broad, that rich American who peddled key-rings in Whitehall, lived in the most expensive flats in London, and found time to be intensely interested in Ezra Maitland.

  He turned abruptly as Elk seated himself.

  “Say, Elk, did you see the child?”

  Elk shook his head.

  “No,” he said, and heard the chuckle of his companion as the car moved toward the civilized west.

  “Yes, I saw that baby,” said Mr. Broad, puffing gently at the cigar he had lit; “and, believe me, Elk, I’ve stopped loving children. Yes, sir. The education of the young means less than nothing to me for evermore.”

  “Where was she?”

  “It’s a ‘he,’” replied Broad calmly, “and I hope I’ll be excused answering your question. I had been in the house an hour when you arrived—I was in the back room, which is empty, by the way. You scared me. I heard you come in and thought it was old St. Nicholas of the Whiskers. Especially when I saw the light go on. I’d had it on when you opened the scullery door—I left that unfastened, by the way. Didn’t want to stop my bolt hole. Well, what do you think?”

  “About Maitland?”

  “Eccentric, eh? You don’t know how eccentric!”

  As the car stopped before the door of Caverley House, Elk broke a long silence.

  “What are you, Mr. Broad?”

  “I’ll give you ten guesses,” said the other cheerfully as they got out.

  “Secret Service man,” suggested Elk promptly.

  “Wrong—you mean U.S.? No, you’re wrong. I’m a private detective who makes a hobby of studying the criminal classes—will you come up and have a drink?”

  “I will come up, but I won’t drink,” said Elk virtuously, “not if you offer gin and orange. That visit to the United States has spoilt my digestion.”

  Broad was fitting a key in the lock of his flat, when a strange cold sensation ran down the spine of the detective, and he laid his hand on the American’s arm.

  “Don’t open that door,” he said huskily.

  Broad looked round in surprise. The yard man’s face was tense and drawn.

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know…just a feeling, that’s all. I’m Scot by birth…we’ve got a word ‘fey,’ which means something supernatural. And it says inside me, ‘don’t open that door.’”

  Broad put down his hand.

  “Are you being fey or funny?” he asked.

  “If I look funny,” said Elk, “I’m entitled to sue my face for libel. There’s something at the other side of that door that isn’t good. I’ll take an oath on it! Give me that!” He took the key from the unwilling hand of Joshua Broad, thrust it in the lock and turned it. Then, with a quick push, he threw open the door, pushing Broad to the cover of the wall.

  Nothing happened for a second, and then:

  “Run!” cried Elk, and leapt for the stairs.

  The American saw the first large billow of greenish-yellowy mist that rolled from the open door, and followed. The hall-porter was closing his office for the night when Elk appeared, hatless and breathless.

  “Can you ‘phone the flats?—good! Get on at once to every one on and below the third floor, and tell them on no account to open their doors. Tell ‘em to close all cracks with paper, to stop up their letter-boxes, and open all windows. Don’t argue—do it! The building is full of poison gas!”

  He himself ‘phoned the fire station, and in a few seconds the jangle of bells sounded in the street outside, and men in gas-masks were clattering up the stairs.

  Fortunately, every tenant except Broad arid his neighbour was out of town for the week-end.

  “And Miss Bassano doesn’t come in till early morning,” said the porter.

  It was daylight before the building was cleared by the aid of high-pressure air-hoses and chemical precipitants. Except that his silver was tarnished black, and every window glass and mirror covered with a yellow deposit, little harm had been done. A musty odour pervaded the flat in spite of the open windows, but later came the morning breeze to dispel the last trace of this malodorous souvenir of the attempt.

  Together the two men made a search of the rooms to discover the manner in which the gas was introduced.

  “Through that open fireplace,” Elk pointed. “The gas is heavier than air, and could be poured down the chimney as easily as pouring water.”

  A search of the flat roof satisfied him that his theory was right. They found ten large glass cylinders and a long rope, to which a wicker cradle was attached. Moreover, one of the chimney-pots (easily reached from the roof) was scratched and discoloured.

  “The operator came into the building when the porter was busy—working the lift probably. He made his way to the roof, carrying the rope and the basket. Somebody in the street fixed the cylinders in the basket, which the man hauled to the roof one by one. It was dead easy, but ingenious. They must have made a pretty careful survey beforehand, or they wouldn’t have known which chimney led to your room.”

  They returned to the flat, and for once Joshua Broad was serious.

  “Fortunately, my servant is on a holiday,” he said, “or he would have been in heaven!”

  “I hope so,” responded Elk piously.

  The sun was tipping the roofs of the houses when he finally left, a sleepy and a baffled man. He heard the sound of boisterous voices before he reached the vestibule. A big car stood at the entrance of the flats, and, seated at the wheel, was a young man in evening dress. By him sat Lew Brady, and on the pavement was a girl in evening finery.

  “A jolly evening, eh, Lola! When I get going, I’m a mover, eh?”

  Ray Bennett’s voice was thick and unsteady. He had been drinking—was within measurable distance of being drunk.

  With a yell he recognized the detective as he came into the street.

  “Why, it’s old Elk—the Elk of Elks! Greetings, most noble copper! Lola, meet Elky of Elksburg, the Sherlock of Fact, the Sleuth—”

  “Shut up!” hissed the savage-voiced Lew Brady in his ear, but Ray was in too exalted a mood to be silenced.

  “Where’s the priceless Gordon?—say, Elk, watch Gordon! Look after poor old Gordon—my sister’s very much attached to Gordon.”

  “Fine car, Mr. Bennett,” said Elk, regarding the machine thoughtfully. “Present from your father!”

  The mention of his father’s name seemed to sober the young man.

  “No, it isn’t,” he snapped, “it belongs to a friend. ‘Night, Lola.” He pumped at the starter, missed picking up, and stamped again. “S’Iong, Elk!”

  With a jerk the ear started, and Elk watched it out of sight. “That young fellow is certainly in danger of knocking his nut against the moon,” he said. “Had a good time, Lola?”

  “Yes—why?”

  She fixed her suspicious eyes upon him expectantly.

  “Didn’t forget to turn off the gas when you went out, did you? If I was Shylock Holmes, maybe I’d tell from the stain on your glove that you didn’t.”

  “What do you mean about gas? I never use the cooker.”

  “Somebody does, and he nearly cooked me and a friend of mine—nearly cooked us good!”

  He saw her frown. Since she was a woman he expected her to be an actress, but somehow he was ready to believe in her sincerity.

  “There’s been a gas attack on Caverley House,” he explained, “and not cooking gas either. I guess you’ll smell it as you go up.”

  “What kind of gas—poison?”

  Elk nodded.

  “But who put it there—emptied it, or whatever is done with gas?”

  Elk looked at her with that wounded expression which so justly irritated his victims.

  “If I knew
, Lola, would I be standing here discussing the matter? Maybe my old friend Shylock Holmes would, but I wouldn’t. I don’t know. It was upset in Mr. Broad’s flat.”

  “That is the American who lives opposite to us—to me,” she said. “I’ve only seen him once. He seems a nice man.”

  “Somebody didn’t think so,” said Elk. “I say, Lola, what’s that boy doing—young Bennett?”

  “Why do you ask me? He is making a lot of money just now, and I suppose he is running a little wild. They all do.”

  “I didn’t,” said Elk; “but if I’d made money and started something, I’d have chosen a better pacemaker than a dud fighting man.”

  The angry colour rose to her pretty face, and the glance she shot at him was as venomous as the gas he had fought all night.

  “And I think I’d have put through a few enquiries to central office about my female acquaintances,” Elk went on remorselessly. “I can understand why you’re glued to the game, because money naturally attracts you. But what gets me is where the money comes from.”

  “That won’t be the only thing that will get you,” she said between her teeth as she flounced into the half-opened door of Caverley House.

  Elk stood where she had left him, his melancholy face expressionless. For five minutes he stood so, and then walked slowly in the direction of his modest bachelor home.

  He lived over a lock-up shop, a cigar store, and he was the sole occupant of the building. As he crossed Gray’s Inn Road, he glanced idly up at the windows of his rooms and noted that they were closed. He noticed something more. Every pane of glass was misty with some yellow, opalescent substance.

  Elk looked up and down the silent street, and at a short distance away saw where road repairers had been at work. The night watchman dozed before his fire, and did not hear Elk’s approach or remark his unusual action. The detective found in a heap of gravel, three rounded pebbles, and these he took back with him. Standing in the centre of the road, he threw one of the pebbles unerringly.

  There was a crash of glass as the window splintered. Elk waited, and presently he saw a yellow wraith of poison-vapour curl out and downward through the broken pane.

  “This is getting monotonous,” said Elk wearily, and walked to the nearest fire alarm.

  VII - A CALL ON MR. MAITLAND

  Outwardly, John Bennett accepted his son’s new life as a very natural development which might be expected in a young man. Inwardly he was uneasy, fearful. Ray was his only son; the pride of his life, though this he never showed. None knew better than John Bennett the snares that await the feet of independent youth in a great city. Worst of all, for his peace of mind, he knew Ray.

  Ella did not discuss the matter with her father, but she guessed his trouble and made up her mind as to what action she would take.

  The Sunday before, Ray had complained bitterly about the new cut to his salary. He bad been desperate and had talked wildly of throwing up his work and finding a new place. And that possibility filled Ella with dismay. The Bennetts lived frugally on a very limited income. Apparently her father had few resources, though he always gave her the impression that from one of these he received a fairly comfortable income.

  The cottage was Bennett’s own property, and the cost of living was ridiculously cheap. A woman from the village came in every morning to do heavy work, and once a week to assist with the wash. That was the only luxury which her father’s meagre allowance provided for. So that she faced the prospect of an out-of-work Ray with alarm and decided upon her line of action.

  One morning Johnson, crossing the marble floor of Maitland’s main office, saw a delicious figure come through the swing doors, and almost ran to meet it.

  “My dear Miss Bennett, this is a wonderful surprise—Ray is out, but if you’ll wait—”

  “I’m glad he is out,” she said, relieved. “I want to see Mr. Maitland. Is it possible?”

  The cheery face of the philosopher clouded.

  “I’m afraid that will be difficult,” he said. “The old man never sees people—even the biggest men in the City. He hates women and strangers, and although I’ve been with him all these years, I’m not so sure that he has got used to me! What is it about?”

  She hesitated.

  “It’s about Ray’s salary,” and then, as he shook his head, she went on urgently: “It is so important, Mr. Johnson. Ray has extravagant tastes, and if they cut his salary it means—well, you know Ray so well!—”

  He nodded.

  “I don’t know whether I can do anything,” he said dubiously. “I’ll go up and ask Mr. Maitland, but I’m afraid that it is a million to one chance against his seeing you.”

  When he came back, the jovial face of Mr. Johnson was one broad smile.

  “Come up before he changes his mind,” he said, and led her to the lift. “You’ll have to do all the talking, Miss Bennett—he’s an eccentric old cuss and as hard as flint.”

  He showed her into a small and comfortably furnished room, and waved his hand to a writing-table littered with papers.

  “My little den,” he explained.

  From the “den” a large rosewood door opened upon Mr. Maitland’s office.

  Johnson knocked softly, and, with a heart that beat a little faster, Ella was ushered into the presence of the strange old man who at that moment was dominating the money market.

  The room was large, and the luxury of the fittings took her breath away. The walls were of rosewood inlaid with exquisite silver inlay. Light came from concealed lamps in the cornice as well as from the long stained-glass windows. Each article of furniture in the room was worth a fortune, and she guessed that the carpet, into which her feet sank, equalled in costliness the whole contents of an average house.

  Behind a vast ormolu writing-table sat the great Maitland, bolt upright, watching her from under his shaggy white brows. A few stray hairs of his spotless beard rested on the desk, and as he raised his hand to sweep them into place, she saw he wore fingerless woollen gloves. His head was completely bald…she looked at his big ears, standing away from his head, fascinated. Patriarchal, yet repulsive. There was something gross, obscene, about him that hurt her. It was not the untidiness of his dress, it was not his years. Age brings refinement, that beauty of decay that the purists call caducity. This old man had grown old coarsely.

  His scrutiny lacked the assurance she expected. It almost seemed that he was nervous, ill at ease. His gaze shifted from the girl to his secretary, and then to the rich colouring of the windows, and then furtively back to Ella again.

  “This is Miss Bennett, sir. You remember that Bennett is our exchange clerk, and a very smart fellow indeed. Miss Bennett wants you to reconsider your decision about that salary cut.”

  “You see, Mr. Maitland,” Ella broke in, “we’re not particularly well off, and the reduction makes a whole lot of difference to us.”

  Mr. Maitland wagged his bald head impatiently.

  “I don’t care whether you’re well off or not well off,” he said loudly. “When I reduces salaries I reduces ‘um, see?”

  She stared at him in amazement. The voice was harsh and common. The language and tone were of the gutter. In that sentence he confirmed all her first impressions.

  “If he don’t like it he can go, and if you don’t like it”—he fixed his dull eyes on the uncomfortable-looking Johnson—“you can go too. There’s lots of fellers I can get—pick ‘um up on the streets! Millions of ‘um! That’s all.” Johnson tiptoed from the presence and closed the door behind her.

  “He’s a horror!” she gasped. “How can you endure contact with him, Mr. Johnson?”

  The stout man smiled quietly.

  “‘Millions of ‘um,’” he repeated, “and he’s right. With a million and a half unemployed on the streets, I can’t throw up a good job—”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, impulsively putting her hand on his arm. “I didn’t know he was like that,” she went on more mildly. “He’s—terrible!”
r />   “He’s a self-made man, and perhaps he would have been well advised to have got an artisan to do the job,” smiled Johnson, “but he’s not really bad. I wonder why he saw you?”

  “Doesn’t he see people?”

  He shook his head.

  “Not unless it is absolutely necessary, and that only happens about twice a year. I don’t think there is anybody in this building that he’s ever spoken to—not even the managers.”

  He took her down to the general office. Ray had not come back.

  “The truth is,” confessed Johnson when she asked him, “that Ray hasn’t been to the office this morning. He sent word to say that he wasn’t feeling any too good, and I fixed it so that he has a day off.”

  “He’s not ill?” she asked in alarm, but Johnson reassured her.

  “No. I got on the telephone to him—he has a telephone at his new flat.”

  “I thought he had an ordinary apartment!” she said, aghast, the housewife in her perturbed. “A flat—where is it?”

  “In Knightsbridge,” replied Johnson quietly. “Yes, it sounds expensive, but I believe he has a bargain. A man who was going abroad sub-let it to him for a song. I suppose he wrote to you from the lodgings in Bloomsbury where he intended going. May I be candid, Miss Bennett?”

  “If it is about Ray, I wish you would,” she answered quickly.

  “Ray is rather worrying me,” said Johnson. “Naturally I want to do all that I can for him, for I am fond of him. At present my job is covering up his rather frequent absences from the office—you need not mention this fact to him—but it is rather a strain, for the old man has an uncanny instinct for a shirker. He is living in better style than he ought to be able to afford, and I’ve seen him dressed to kill with some of the swellest people in town—at least, they looked swell.”

  The girl felt herself go cold, and the vague unrest in her mind became instantly a panic.

  “There isn’t…anything wrong at the office?” she asked anxiously.

  “No. I took the liberty of going through his books. They’re square. His cash account is right to a centimo. Crudely stated, he isn’t stealing—at least, not from us. There’s another thing. He calls himself Raymond Lester at Knightsbridge. I found this out by accident, and asked him why he had taken another name. His explanation was fairly plausible. He didn’t want Mr. Bennett to hear that he was cutting a shine. He has some profitable outside work, but he won’t tell me what it is.”