by Peter Baron
At the moment that he made the discovery, Clem made another that definitely established the identity of the previous visitor.
Lying on the table partially hidden by a magazine was a piece of white notepaper that had escaped Keating’s attention, and it was only by the merest chance that Clem caught sight of it. But once he had seen, it commanded all his attention. The message written on it was a brief one and he repeated it to himself and whistled softly.
“‘First come, first served. The Poacher.’ I’ll tell a man dere’s nothing wrong wid dat claim-jumper’s nerve,” he muttered. “Of all de cool——”
His meditations came to an abrupt stop and the half admiring look on his face was replaced by his habitual masklike expression. Neither by look nor movement did he betray what he had seen in the mirror on the opposite wall.
It was a small circular mirror and faced the window. He had noticed that much without paying any attention to it, when he entered the room. He still paid no attention to it, but the reflection of the top of a gray slouch hat that he had seen was printed indelibly on his memory. From beneath lowered lids he saw that the mirror now reflected only the window. He began to stroll casually round the table.
He reached the wall and edging along it peered cautiously out without revealing himself.
Below him the vaguely defined figure of a man in a gray suit was descending the sloping outhouse roof.
His eyes snapped. He was not concerned with the motives that had led the Poacher to remain instead of making his escape—all that mattered was to get this “Claim-jumper” and “get him good.” Even now he could hear Keating clambering back through the skylight and in the meantime the Poacher was “beating it.”
Clem backed swiftly to the door and, clear of it, took the stairs three at a time.
He had to get to the end of the block and reach the entrance to the mews before the Poacher had time to leave the alley. In the open street the odds would be less favorable and this time Clem was not minded to make a mistake. He had made one once in Birmingham and the laugh had been with the man he was even then flying to meet. That scar was still new.
But he was spared the trouble of a dash to the alleyway. The Poacher must have moved more swiftly than he thought or else he himself had wasted too much time at the window. Sufficient it was that there were soft footfalls in the street and a cautious glance out showed him that his enemy was walking towards him and taking a scarf from his face!
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The Poacher walking swiftly came abreast of the entrance to Larry’s flat, to halt suddenly as the blinding glare of a torch struck him full between the eyes.
“Say, I bin waitin’ fer this meet up,” drawled Clem lounging forward. “You and me—sufferin’ snakes, you!”
Clem glared wildly at the face revealed in the light of his torch for a second and then moved forward. The step was his undoing. Two sharp reports synchronized with a sudden spurt of flame from the Poacher’s right hand pocket.
Clem sprawled backwards against the porchway and slid to the ground as the Poacher with one swift glance at the house dived across the road into the open doorway of the flat opposite.
As he disappeared Keating, in profane quest of Clem, blundered down the steps and measured his length over his prostrate quarry. He sat up spitting dust and invective.
“Taking a rest?” he snarled and suddenly saw that something was amiss. Clem’s face was twisted with agony and his voice little more than a croak.
“I’m all—right. Poacher—house opposite—get—“ he rolled sideways.
Keating gave him one quick glance and bounding to his feet leapt across the road to the house into which he had seen a vague figure vanish before he fell over Clem.
There was both an outer and an inner door to the entrance of the flats and both of these stood open. He strode in, drawing his automatic and peered into the darkness of the unlit lobby. Beyond the fact that there was a flight of stairs he could distinguish nothing. A cool draught played on his face and he squinted into the blackness in an effort to trace its source. Somewhere ahead of him another door was open.
He moved forward and at the same moment a slight sound on his right made him halt and wheel abruptly to face the stairs.
“Oh, it’s you, is it?” asked a drawling voice and the hall was suddenly flooded with light.
Inspector Keating found himself looking into the pleasantly smiling face of Larry Wade, who lolled against the lintel post at the foot of the stairs. Keating grunted his satisfaction and absentmindedly swung the pistol he held in line with Larry’s hip.
“It looks,” he said placidly, “as though I’ve got something on you, Larry, at last.”
Larry smiled. “I wouldn’t bet on it. What do you think you’ve got on me?”
“Within the last two minutes the Poacher entered this flat,” said Keating, “and I followed him and found you!”
Larry’s eyes narrowed.
“So it was him? Just a minute, Keating, we’ve got to search this ground floor.” He made a move to pass the Inspector but found his path barred.
“And I’ve got to search you,” Keating retorted.
“Don’t be a bigger fool than you can help. I tell you we must search this place.”
“Presently, perhaps,” agreed Keating. “Up.”
Larry bit his lip and raised his hands above his head.
“You’ll regret this,” he said, and stood there passively.
Keating ran an expert hand over his clothing without finding the gun he sought.
“Satisfied?” asked Larry grimly, as Keating concluded his search.
“No. Only curious. You and me are going to talk confidentially, Larry.”
“While the Poacher beats it, you fool. I tell you I’m not——”
“—going far,” interrupted Keating. “No, you bet you’re not. Step, and step lively.”
For a moment Larry contemplated hurling himself at the Inspector and knocking him down, then he abandoned the idea and obeyed the other’s command.
“Better go over to my flat,” he said resignedly. “He’s got away now?”
“Has he?” asked Keating and urged Larry out into the street.
Half way across the road Larry came to a halt and Keating looking beyond him stared at the steps on which he had last seen Clem.
“The steps are still there,” he said with an effort. “That’s a consolation—I’m not seeing things.”
“The fellow who shot Clem did it at two yards range,” Larry marveled. “Unless Clem was wearing armor plate he couldn’t have escaped. Question is, who’s been corpse-snatching?”
“You know a lot about it,” said Keating coldly. “Sounds like firsthand knowledge.”
Larry made no reply and Keating moved close to him in a belated effort to shield the gun he carried from the interested eyes of a little knot of idlers who were gathering on the steps of the flat.
“Go right ahead,” he invited, and Larry walked on.
Keating pushed his way unceremoniously through the crowd and walking up the steps produced his whistle. Two minutes after the first shrill blast a policeman hurried up.
“Where were you when I whistled?” snapped Keating, showing a silver badge for a moment.
“Corner of Conduit Street, sir.”
“Any one pass you in the last five minutes staggering as if he was—hurt, or drunk?”
“No, sir. Plenty of people passed but nobody in that condition.”
“Get back and see if the man on point duty saw anything. Keep your eye on any areas or likely shelters as you go.”
As the man turned away a second constable hurried up from the other direction and Keating fired out his questions anew, with a like result. He sent the man back whence he had come with a similar order.
Ignoring the crowd, he turned to Larry.
“Now we’ll go up,” he said.
“Yes, after you’ve roused all Bruton Street,” said Larry walking upstairs. “You s
houldn’t do it Keating. Brings the property into disrepute. I shall be asked to leave as an undesirable.”
“Which’ll be awkward,” snarled Keating, “because being an undesirable you won’t have any defence.”
The light was still on in Larry’s room and he paused in the doorway to study the wrecked room with grim amusement. Behind him Larry studied it with even more grimness if less amusement.
“Gosh, you must have worked hard to muck up the place like this in five minutes.”
“I’ll muck you up in less, if you don’t sit down and stay put,” Keating growled, kicking the door shut.
Larry sat down and listened to Keating making a report over the telephone. Concluding, the Inspector perched himself on the corner of the table.
“Now, see here, Larry,” he said slowly, “let’s get things straight. I want the truth and I’m getting it if you have to break a life oath or a blood vessel telling it. Have a good think and tell me how long you were in that flat opposite.”
“Inside fifteen minutes.”
Keating smiled tolerantly. “Tell that to the coroner. What did you go there for? And don’t pull any of that nice-view-from-the-top-floor stuff.”
“Nevertheless it’s perfectly true. Early this afternoon I spotted Clem outside my place made up as cunningly as a provincial actor in his first show. He was still there when I went out at eight. I walked round, entered the flat opposite by the back entrance, and watched him pick the lock from the window on the first floor. Pretty harmless sport, what?”
“Help yourself to a halo,” said Keating, helping himself to a cigarette.
“I saw you arrive,” continued Larry, “and go in with Clem and five minutes later he dashed out and flashed a torch in the face of an apparently harmless citizen, dressed as far as I could see, in gray.”
“Like you,” commented the other dryly, but Larry ignored the interruption.
“Clem said something to the man and moved closer. Then the stranger slung a gat, so fast that I never saw it arrive, and Clem hit the deck. I saw the stranger streak across the road and enter the flat from which I was watching and then I dashed downstairs to see who he was and met you. That’s all I know. I guess the other fellow went straight through and out of the back entrance.”
Keating raised his eyes piously to the ceiling.
“Pure as the driven snow,” he murmured and added, “after the thaw’s set in.”
Larry lighted a cigarette and looked round the disordered room.
“I hope you didn’t have your trouble for nothing,” he offered. “I hate to think of you tearing up the lino and only finding guileless boards.”
“Change the record,” grunted Keating. “And get it out of your head that I overhauled your boudoir, will you?”
“Well someone’s been playing snakes and ladders here,” said Larry reproachfully.
“The Poacher.”
Larry’s eyes lit up angrily. “It’s about time you roped that bird, Keating. Up to date you aren’t earning your keep. What do you think I pay taxes for?”
“Because you can’t help yourself. What was that bird after here?”
“Probably the diamond necklace I am supposed to have stolen from the Countess of Raith,” Larry fenced. “Do you know why he was here?”
“I know everything. He wanted that slip of paper that Dennis left here.”
“Why don’t they promote you, Keating?” Larry asked admiringly.
“I’m going up all right and like as not you’ll be the first rung of the ladder I step on. Dennis was up against it. He’d just croaked a man and doubted if he could get away with it. What did he do? Passed his share of the secret on to you, in case he made a bad break. Which he did—that fellow wasn’t such a wizard with a gun as he thought he was.” Keating smiled complacently.
“Are you still telling me why the Poacher raided this flat,” Larry asked, “or haven’t you finished the recitative?”
“He was after what Dennis left here. He had already got something similar from Ralph, leaving a note in the safe, which Dennis found. Today he’s beat Clem to it.”
“Do you mind talking English? Your American is a little difficult for a Brooklyn man who doesn’t speak Yiddish.”
“Very funny,” commented Keating, who was rather proud of his American. “Where was I?”
“God knows, I don’t.”
Nor did Keating. He smoked thoughtfully and for the first time noticed the note the Poacher had left. Picking it up he read it and passed it to Larry. Watching the American read, a new idea occurred to Keating.
“Fits like the paper on the wall,” he said slowly. It did. It fitted in too with the first theory he had formed when he found Larry in the flat opposite, and Samuel Keating was a man who hated to discard a promising theory.
Taking out a fountain pen he offered it to Larry.
“Write that message down,” he invited and Larry, with a twisted smile, obeyed.
Looking over his shoulder, Keating saw that the other’s writing was a perfect replica of the Poacher’s. He grunted. It was an astute move. He would have had better grounds for suspecting the other if Larry had written in a totally different hand, the obvious thing to do.
“Very smart,” he said. “I forgot you were a knight of the pen.”
“Forger, eh? So far you’ve called me everything but a catburglar.”
“Plenty of time for that. You’ve tried everything in your time from smash and grab raids to long firm frauds.”
Keating paused and rallied his ideas. He wanted to expound the latest phase of his theory while the idea was fresh.
“Supposing the raid on this flat were a blind, Larry, just supposing,” he mused. “The Poacher might have been afraid that Clem or Ian would find something, and staged a fake raid to keep them off.”
“Fine,” agreed Larry warily, with some idea of the direction in which Keating’s thoughts were moving. “Why should the Poacher protect my flat?”
“Supposing it was his flat.”
Larry carefully extinguished his cigarette. “Do you by any chance know what you’re talking about, because I don’t?”
Keating studied him gloomily. “Yes I know what I’m talking about. The Poacher fits you better than any alias you’ve ever taken.”
“Blast you.” Larry was on his feet. “Forging—smash and grab raids—long firm frauds—pass all those, but murder—you damned swine. Do you think I’d murder my own brother?”
“Yes. You’d croak your grandmother for her endowment policy. And who says it’s murder? We haven’t found the body yet.”
By an effort Larry controlled his passion and forced his voice to its normal flippant tone.
“You’ll have a hard time proving it. The only man who can swear to the Poacher’s identity is Clem. And he’s vanished.”
The same thing had occurred to Keating. He got up moodily and walked about the room. Until he could trace Clem he had no case against Larry and if he made any move without being quite certain of the issue he would have Kaye’s scathing tongue to reckon with.
“Now if you’ve done perhaps you’ll either clear up or clear out,” Larry suggested.
Keating strolled to the door.
“When I clear up you’ll clear out,” he said. “So long. The next time I drop in I shall have company when I leave.”
For some moments Larry busied himself straightening the room. After a while he crossed the room and picked up an overturned chair. As he passed the door he opened it and spoke without looking up.
“Come in out of the draught, Keating. I’d hate you to die of pneumonia. I’d prefer it to be something lingering.”
Inspector Keating appeared in the doorway and eyed him morosely.
“Supposing, just supposing,” mocked Larry, “that Dennis had left anything here, did you think that as soon as you left I’d jump to see if it was still safe?”
That was exactly what the other had thought. He stalked gloomily down the stairs pondering on t
he queer workings of a Fate that had offered success with one hand and took it back with the other. On the evidence he had in hand there was little doubt that he could lodge Larry in jail, the one thing that he had been trying to do for years. And now that he had the chance he couldn’t use it.
If Larry was “put away” it spoilt the one possible chance of recovering the Morcovian emeralds through the information that Dennis had passed on. Also, once Larry was in prison, the Poacher would realize the futility of trying to get at his share of the secret. Of course if the Poacher had found what he wanted, that removed both objections to Larry’s arrest. But Larry had looked too confident. It was obvious even to Keating that whatever Larry had received from Dennis was quite safe.
And while Keating soliloquized Larry was reading his friend’s last letter. He had played the game and kept the envelope unopened until it could no longer be of use to his friend—until the day after he had been executed. Keeping faith was one of Larry’s few virtues. Now he reread the letter.
“By the time you read this I shall be dead, so make the best use of it. Ian has another slip similar to this and Ralph had one also. The Poacher lifted Ralph’s, but it ought not to be difficult to get possession of Ian’s slip. In any case watch his movements. He may have solved his part of the code. The three slips stuck together will give you the location of the d’Essinger emeralds and some thousands in notes. Goodbye, Larry and good luck. WATCH THE POACHER. DENNIS.”
He read the last line again and smiled grimly. Fastened to the letter was a small piece of paper which he studied intently. On it was written:
It told him nothing. He read it downwards, reversed the sequence of the letters, tried reading every other letter and resorted to all of the better known methods of decoding, but met with the same blank wall as he had met when first he saw it. With a sigh he folded it up and placed it back amongst a number of pipe spills in a bowl on the mantel shelf. As a hiding place it was amusing, but effective.
Seated in his armchair he looked round the now orderly room and pondered the most amazing event of the evening. That of Clem’s disappearance.