The Round Table Murders

by Peter Baron

  © Phocion Publishing 2019, all rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted by any means, electrical, mechanical or otherwise without the written permission of the copyright holder.

  Publisher’s Note

  Although in most cases we have retained the Author’s original spelling and grammar to authentically reproduce the work of the Author and the original intent of such material, some additional notes and clarifications have been added for the modern reader’s benefit.

  We have also made every effort to include all maps and illustrations of the original edition the limitations of formatting do not allow of including larger maps, we will upload as many of these maps as possible.

  The ROUND TABLE MURDERS

  By

  PETER BARON

  The Round Table Murders was originally published in 1931 by the Macaulay Company, New York. Peter Baron was the pen-name of Leonard Worswick Clyde.

  In this edition of The Round Table Murders, the UK English spellings have been changed, in nearly all cases, to those used in the United States.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Contents

  TABLE OF CONTENTS 5

  DEDICATION 6

  CHAPTER ONE 7

  CHAPTER TWO 15

  CHAPTER THREE 22

  CHAPTER FOUR 29

  CHAPTER FIVE 34

  CHAPTER SIX 40

  CHAPTER SEVEN 46

  CHAPTER EIGHT 54

  CHAPTER NINE 60

  CHAPTER TEN 81

  CHAPTER ELEVEN 89

  CHAPTER TWELVE 96

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN 104

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN 112

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN 119

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN 127

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN 134

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN 140

  CHAPTER NINETEEN 149

  CHAPTER TWENTY 157

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE 163

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO 170

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE 177

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR 184

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE 192

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX 198

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN 203

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT 210

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE 216

  CHAPTER THIRTY 221

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE 226

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO 234

  REQUEST FROM THE PUBLISHER 238

  DEDICATION

  Dedicated to

  DORIS FREEMAN

  MY TYPIST, AND SEVEREST CRITIC

  • • •

  All characters in this book are entirely fictitious

  CHAPTER ONE

  Piegatti’s stood, because it was supported by a house on either side, in one of the dirtiest and least prepossessing streets of Soho, and Inspector Keating never passed through its portals without fearing that they would give way. Which, considering that he did so frequently, was a little unnerving.

  Keating was neither well-known nor well-liked at the restaurant and its habitués invariably spent an unquiet five minutes of intensive thought when the stocky figure of the Yard man appeared in the doorway. It was so seldom that he ever came to eat, and so rarely that he brought news that did not prevent others from so doing. Few men enjoy a meal with the knowledge that at its conclusion they are going “inside” to partake of His Majesty’s hospitality for an indefinite period.

  The fact that Keating was looking for another Royal guest accounted for his presence there one night in late November. He had selected Piegatti’s as being the place most likely to take some of the money that Clem Wade had recently taken from someone else, but as a matter of fact, Clem had sufficient sense to avoid his usual haunts and, as a result, a certain fat Argentine banker failed to receive any information concerning the desecration of his safe.

  Keating would not have remained if he had not noticed Chorley “the Nose” leaning against the wall of the entrance hall. Chorley, whose baptismal name was Charles Egbert Marks, imbued Keating with an abiding dislike. It was a dislike that always prompted him to bestow a kick where it would do Chorley most good, and the Yard man was oppressed with a fear that one day he would gratify the desire, and possibly forfeit the aid that Chorley frequently proffered. For Chorley had his uses. He saw, heard and knew everything. Everything, that is, that was of any use to Inspector Keating and incidentally, himself. And although certain of the Filching Fraternity suspected Chorley’s activities, he was wily enough not to give them definite proof and contrived to ply his trade with perfect immunity.

  Tonight he lounged there, the inevitable cigarette between his lips, dreamily contemplating the mural decorations of the restaurant, and other things. Mostly other things.

  As Keating crossed the lobby Chorley glanced at him casually and then resumed his study of the “other things.” No sign of recognition passed between the two men, but Keating knew instinctively just how far to walk before he halted to light his pipe.

  It was as he threw away the match that someone whispered “The Colonel’s back!” It was a peculiar whisper and appeared to have no visible source. Certainly not Chorley, whose lips had not moved and whose eyes were still fixed speculatively on the room. But it was the remark and not the manner of its making that interested Keating. So much so that his pipe slipped from his fingers.

  He stooped to pick it up and breathed “Where?”

  “Back left-hand corner arbor,” replied the whisper of uncertain origin.

  Keating straightened up, apparently without having noticed Chorley, and walked across to where the manager lounged against the cashier’s desk in conversation with the blowsy leering female who occupied it.

  “Clem Wade been in tonight?” jerked Keating, fingering his small mustache.

  “No, ‘e ‘ave not to the ristorante come, signore,” murmured the manager obsequiously.

  “See here, I dunno what ‘seen-yor-ay’ means and I don’t want to, for your sake. My name’s Keating, Inspector Keating to you. Jot it down in the little red book as a reminder.”

  “Sí, sí, Inspector.”

  Keating turned his back on the manager and strolled deliberately across the room to the back left-hand arbor unheeding, but not unconscious of, the speculative glances that followed his short bulky figure. Before he was half-way there, the eyes of George Everard Teyst, sometime of the Army and still called “The Colonel,” were smiling a friendly greeting at him.

  George Teyst from his lithe figure and unlined face might have been thirty, and then again he might have been sixty. His snow white hair supported the latter theory, his keen eyes and active brain the former, but he had never been “inside” and the Records Office knew nothing definite of him. Keating judged him to be about fifty, although he had heard of shock turning a man’s hair white at twenty. And George must have had a few shocks during his life. Nevertheless his eyes still preserved the sharpness of youth, and most people made the mistake of thinking them kindly until they detected the cynicism behind the persistently lowered lids.

  Keating had made that mistake once himself and, in consequence, spent a solid hour damning their owner. Now he looked down to find them gazing straight into his own. Uninvited, he took a chair opposite the Colonel and proceeded to relight his pipe.

  “So you’re back?” he asked gloomily, and the other laughed.

  “An optimist might construe that as a welcome. Am I mistaken or did I see Chorley fingering in the lobby?”

  His pleasant drawl irritated Keating as did his uncanny faculty for observing everything in his immediate vicinity, and elsewhere.

  “What is it this time, George?”

  The question amused his companion. “Either you need a drink or else you’ve had one too many. You’ll know in good time.”


  That was exactly what Keating was afraid of. “It’ll come unstuck,” he warned, but the Colonel smiled his disagreement.

  “Unlikely,” he replied, “even if there was anything to come unstuck. Could there be anything more transparent than my purity of intention? I think not. I’ve never been shopped and I never shall, so why watch me?”

  “I know Cortot painted pictures,” Keating said heavily, “but I never saw him paint ‘em!”

  “Corot,” the Colonel corrected.

  “Mebbe, but there’s only one kind of artist that I’m interested in at the moment, your kind. Still collecting?”

  “Still collecting,” agreed the Colonel.

  “Any particular stones?”

  “I’ll send you a post card giving the time, date and place, after the event,” replied the other and pushed his cigarette case across the table.

  Keating declined and pulled at his pipe. He was being played with. He knew it and disliked it.

  “If you’re thinking of pulling anything crooked,” he said, “my advice to you is the same as the girl’s to the sailor...don’t. You’re like Moses, George. You’ll go to the well once too often.”

  “The well, often, the cell, never,” smiled the Colonel. “The Scripture test was pretty soft when they passed you as an Inspector. That Moses one ought to have amused the Commissioners, whom God preserve.”

  “Preserve? Petrify!” grunted Keating, who classified his superiors with income tax and measles. “Who are you going to part from the stones?”

  “I shouldn’t lose any sleep working that one out. You’ll read all about it in the papers.”

  Keating smiled amiably. That was probably true and if he dwelt on the subject he was liable to lose his temper. He changed his line of attack.

  “Seen anything of the boys lately?”

  “No.” The reply was curt and Keating was disappointed. He was something more than interested in the Colonel and his brothers, who as a combined gang had given him, in the past, all the excitement he asked for in this life.

  “You boys don’t get together so often,” he pursued. “The Yard’s anxious. We hate to see the happy family divided. What’s the trouble?”

  “Money.”

  “Always is, but you never found it very difficult to get. Other people have still got plenty.”

  “Not enough to satisfy the boys,” said the Colonel bitterly.

  “Quarreled over the division, eh?”

  “Something like that.”

  The Colonel believed in candor to a certain extent and his frankness was a source of pleasure to Keating. For that alone the Inspector was pleased to see him. He would have been pleased to see him under any circumstances, behind bars, but the prospect seemed remote.

  He sighed, “You ought to talk like a Dutch uncle to Dennis. His pure mind is being soiled by contact with the Wade gang. I’ve seen him twice lately with Larry. I’d hate to see Dennis go wrong.”

  The sarcasm left the Colonel untouched, but the mention of Larry Wade’s name aroused him.

  “If I thought—“ he began and changed his mind. “And the other two? Still treading the primrose path as prescribed by the Prisoners Aid Society? It’s a pity that we split up and agreed to go our own ways. Together we could have...well we may do yet, so I’ll keep it under my hat. Divided as we are now we’re liable to take a holiday on the ‘moor.’ At least, they are.”

  Which was a fairly accurate forecast. The four Teyst brothers, George, Ian, Ralph and Dennis had been a perfect combination under the leadership of George, but deprived of the brain of the Combine they were liable to be “sent up” directly they made a move. Of which the Colonel was aware, and a perverted sense of brotherly love was responsible for his regret. He called for his bill and stared moodily across the room.

  “I’m hoping to bridge the gulf soon,” he said as he rose.

  “With?”

  “Naturally, stones.”

  “You’ll find all the stones you want in Princetown,” Keating grunted.

  “We shall see, eventually.” The Colonel nodded pleasantly and walked across to the cashier’s desk. Keating watched him with an unpleasant foreboding. The other had already passed Chorley on his way to the door, when it occurred to Keating that it might be profitable to observe the Colonel’s future movements.

  The same idea had occurred to his quarry and it is doubtful if Keating could have trailed his man for long. The Colonel had been trailed before, but not far. His flair for apparently dissolving into the air was a sore point with those most interested in seeing that he did not, but on this occasion he was spared the necessity of exercising that useful habit.

  Keating followed him to the door and no further. He would have done so but for the fact that his progress was suddenly barred by a tall slim young man who stood squarely in his path.

  The newcomer’s coat collar was turned up, a muffler hid the lower part of his face and the down-turned brim of his hat, a gray trilby, performed a like service for his eyes.

  Over his shoulder Keating saw the Colonel turn the corner and stepped forward only to halt as a hand fell on his arm.

  “Just a moment, Inspector,” said a high-pitched voice and Keating paused.

  “Well?”

  “I want a few words with you,” continued the other in the same curious falsetto and linked arms with Keating.

  That would not have happened if the stranger had been slower or Keating quicker. As it was Keating suddenly felt something hard pressing into his side, below his ribs and, correctly diagnosing the symptoms, stood stock still. At that time of the night the street was deserted and they were just out of earshot of Chorley and any others lingering in the restaurant lobby. Apart from which Keating’s automatic was in his hip pocket and difficult to extract, with any safety to himself.

  “Trailing Colonel Teyst, I believe?” asked the other and at the same time he urged Keating forward in the opposite direction to that taken by the Colonel.

  Keating grunted to cover his surprise. This man obviously knew both the Colonel and himself, but Keating could recall nobody among his “little friends” with sufficient nerve to hold an Inspector up with a gun, and in an open street.

  “I am,” he answered slowly.

  “You were,” the other corrected, “but right now is where you stop the Peter-Pan-and-his-shadow stunt and go for a nice walk.”

  Keating studied his companion covertly but discerned nothing more than he had learned at the first glance. The stranger’s speech told him little, beyond the fact that although his remarks had an American setting, the speaker was English. His accent had nothing of the metallic timbre that Keating connected with the only American he knew, Clem Wade.

  “Son,” he said after a few moments, “you’re starting something you can’t finish. Maybe you don’t know that there are several nice institutions in this country where we entertain young men who hold up Inspectors with guns.”

  “And maybe you don’t know the little story about first catching your bird? I shan’t lose any sleep, either way. Step lively.”

  Keating “stepped lively” and began to experiment with his left hand, the one farthest from his companion.

  “What’s the big idea, anyway?” he complained as they walked towards the darkened end of the street. “Are you George’s guardian angel or something?”

  “No, but you’re nearer the angels than you’ll ever be. Keep away from that gat!”

  Keating’s left hand dropped slowly away from his side. He had been sliding it cautiously round his back to his hip pocket and in a few more seconds might have considerably altered the course of subsequent events.

  He spoke regretfully. “You’re adding years to your sentence every minute. I’ll remember this when the beak wants to know how long you ought to be ‘put away’ for.”

  “The judge who can send up the Poacher, isn’t on the bench yet,” boasted the other and Keating started. His surprise amused his companion.

  “Tw
o years ago you told Larry Wade you’d get the Poacher and get him proper,” he sneered. “Well, you’ve got him. Right here and waiting, and you haven’t got any change coming.”

  But Keating was hardly listening. The Poacher was no unfamiliar name to him or the Birmingham police. The Mayor had once said “Joey Chamberlain made Birmingham and the Poacher flayed it.” That was true, but the Poacher, if this was he, was varying his usual practice. Hitherto he had been the enemy rather than the friend of his profession. At least six of Keating’s “little friends” had promised to “fix” the Poacher for past favors. Many of them had wrought nobly, planning effective little coups for the pleasure of having the Poacher step in at the last minute and collect their lawful dues. It had earned him his name and the hatred of half the community that novelists call the “underworld.” For him to be virtually aiding one of the profession was something of a shock and it left Keating groping.

  He walked on mechanically until the other abruptly called a halt in a square from which many roads led away into the darkness.

  “Stand easy, this is where I get off. I reckon the Colonel is home and gone bye-byes some time,” he said.

  “Some day, I’ll get you for this,” Keating said softly. “From now on London’s going to be nearly as hot for you as the place they never mention at Sunday schools.”

  “I should worry. Turn your dial east and keep going. And re member Lot’s wife. She made a bad break and finished up all salt. Follow her lead and you’re worm fodder. Travel.”

  Keating did not look round; he walked on for perhaps fifteen seconds and then turned. The Poacher was nowhere in sight and Keating did not trouble to look for him.

  Taking a short cut into Piccadilly he made his way by the most direct route to Scotland Yard, thinking deeply and a little uncharitably of the man he had just left.

  He walked into his office at the Yard some minutes later and seated himself moodily on the corner of his superior’s desk.

  The man at the table continued to write unconcernedly. It was nothing unusual for Keating to return from his nightly prowls imbued with a desire for light conversation, and it was Superintendent Kaye’s invariable custom to try and cast his columns of figures despite his friend’s comments on life and its delusions.