by Peter Baron
“Fine,” grinned Brown. “He got in a Seneca and a Pliny, and I scored neatly with a Socrates and a Cicero. Who the devil was Cicero, sir?”
But Kaye was not listening. Rising to his feet he picked up the gag and despite his subordinate’s protests, replaced it.
“I’d give a month’s pay to know exactly where Inspector Keating is at the moment,” he said, “and I will do so if I don’t find out within a few hours. Goodbye, Brown. Stick it a little longer, and comfort yourself with the infallible wisdom of the ancient Plato—’A work well begun is half ended.’ There’s a lot in it.”
To which remark Brown returned a grunt. He had no choice. His thoughts as he heard Kaye leave the house were decidedly unflattering to his superior.
Out in the drive Kaye walked slowly back to the house and his pantry. From its window he could see Mrs. Greer sleeping in a chair in the kitchen garden, and farther afield he caught an occasional glimpse of Larry practicing a trick service on the tennis court. Ian, he knew, was reading in his own room, and Barbara was not yet back from town. For a few moments he stood there looking out across the garden, and then took out the key that he had obtained from Brown.
Smiling faintly he left the pantry and made his way silently through the kitchen to the hall. Pausing a moment outside Ian’s door he continued on silently across the hall and up the stairs. As he reached the corridor he became even more careful, and reaching Larry’s room, moved with a peculiar sliding step obliterating the slightest vibration that might otherwise have attracted the attention of Ian, directly beneath him.
Crossing to the window he looked out carefully to see that the others were still where he had left them, and then standing by the door listened for signs of any activity on the part of Ian. But the house was silent.
He turned and took stock of the room. Very little escaped the attention of Superintendent Kaye, and that only because it was irrelevant, but all those things that he considered “interesting” he investigated, and foremost amongst them was Larry’s handsome leather suitcase.
A little deft manipulation with the thin tube of steel with which Brown had provided him, and the catches of the case flew back. Almost the first thing that caught his eye, and amused him, was the recently purchased periscope, and the second thing he noticed was an unsealed envelope containing a letter which he hoped would amuse him even more.
Picking up the letter, he closed the suitcase and crossed to the window, taking another cautious survey before he placed his find on the writing desk. He took out a small pair of steel pincers and, gingerly removing the letter from its envelope, unfolded it. Its contents, to say the least of them, were interesting.
He read:
“My dear Lou,
“Within a few days I shall have got—what I came for. I anticipate a little trouble with our mysterious friend, the Poacher, but I fancy I’ve got that gentleman taped. Unless some one dealt me a dud stack, the butler here is not altogether a stranger to our elusive friend”—Kaye’s eyes glittered ironically—“but that remains to be seen. With regard to Keating, hold him at least till the end of the week—I’ll wire you from Southampton when it’s safe to let him loose on a long suffering world. The usual way—blindfold and a little ride round before you dump him in Green Park or some other wide open space. Above all—hands off, as far as violence is concerned. I’m very fond of Keating, but Chorley isn’t. See that the fool doesn’t show his face or he’ll wreck the whole show and possibly Keating, which is not——.”
The letter finished there, and after studying it for a moment Kaye replaced it in the envelope which he noticed with grim amusement was addressed to Lou Staam, Esq., 4A, Angel Crescent, The Barbican, E.C.
So that was where Sam was? He dropped the envelope and stared out of the window. He could no longer hear the sound of the balls on the court, but the significance of that did not strike him. For the moment his thoughts were centered on his friend. He did not waste any time trying to explain to himself how Keating had landed himself in his present corner, neither did he think that Keating was in any particular danger. Ghorley, for instance, had got sufficient sense not to show his face and thus betray to Keating the identity of his captors, nevertheless Superintendent Kaye felt a little uneasy.
Chorley and others had no particular love for Sam or——
At that point Kaye became aware that he was no longer the sole occupant of the room. Some one was standing in the doorway behind him.
There was exactly one thing that he could do and he did it. With one hand he covertly slid the envelope beneath a blotting pad on the desk, taking care to move only his wrist in so doing, and with the other he slipped the letter into an inside pocket of his jacket, still observing the same caution. Fortunately his back prevented the newcomer from seeing the movements of his hands.
Then, apparently unaware that he was not alone he straightened up a few books on the desk and closed the window before turning round. His start on observing Larry was little short of masterly.
Leaning against the wall with a cigarette pendant from the corner of his mouth, Larry watched Kaye with eyes that were unpleasantly speculative.
“What’s the idea?” he asked shortly.
“Idea? I’m afraid I don’t understand, sir.”
“No? Why the fanatical fury for tidying up?”
“Habit, sir,” Kaye answered respectfully. “You cannot break the habits of a lifetime.”
“Habit? On your half day? I wonder what your Union would say?”
“I happened to see in passing the room a few little things that—er—needed attention, and stepped in to give it.” “Selfless man,” said Larry. “I wonder what the things were that needed—er—a little attention? You know, Socrates put it rather well when he said ‘Suspect the meaning and regard not speeches.’”
It was Kaye’s turn to smile. He looked down pointedly at the books-he had been straightening.
“I too, have found Brewer very useful at times, sir,” he replied, meaningly.
The retort that sprang to Larry’s lips remained unspoken, hut it was, fortunate that a diversion was caused at that moment by Barbara’s Gabriel horn as her car turned in at the gates.
“That will be Miss Teyst returning,” said Kaye. “I think, if you will excuse me, I will go and prepare tea, sir—even although it is my half day, Mrs. Greer will be glad of some assistance.”
He crossed the room and Larry stood aside. As the other passed him he spoke softly.
“Crale, have you ever heard of the Poacher?” he asked.
Kaye halted and faced his questioner.
“Who has not, sir,” he said, and looked Larry squarely in the eyes. “I have made an intensive study of the gentleman’s career. In fact I think I may say that I know more about the Poacher than any other living person.”
For a moment Larry looked directly at Kaye, and then turned aside.
“Will that be all, sir? Thank you.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
But far from carrying out his expressed intention of preparing tea, Kaye made his first move in the direction of the morning room. The need for action was imminent. It could only be a matter of hours at the most before Larry discovered that his unfinished letter to Lou had been removed, and took action accordingly.
Closing the door of the morning room, Kaye crossed the room, and picking up the telephone gave a number. With one eye on the door he waited until he was connected to Inspector Storm of the Flying Squad.
“Hullo, is that you, Storm?” he asked speaking softly into the transmitter. “Kaye here. Listen. I’ve got a rush job for you. Turn out the Squad and raid Lou Staam’s place in Angel Crescent. Yes, at once. What’s that? Charge be hanged—Lou is the biggest fence in London. I’ve suspected it for some time—not that it matters. The main point is that they’ve got Keating there. Yes, Keating—Lord only knows how. For the love of Mike, hurry, I don’t want Sam hurt—one of the crowd who are holding him is Chorley ‘the Nose’—Yes—Sam got him a t
wo-year stretch and he might make things unpleasant. I can rely on you? Good. See to it, old son.”
He replaced the receiver and stood there thinking. Of course there was no possible chance of Sam being hurt, and yet all the same—Superintendent Kaye was very fond of his friend.
But at that moment Inspector Keating was not fond of any one—in fact he was probably the most disgruntled man in the entire Metropolitan Police Force. With good reason.
Three days of sitting in a stone cellar, with a steel band around his waist that held him firmly to the wall, was enough to have tried the patience of stronger men than Samuel Keating.
He glanced round the cellar and scowled. Sitting up on his pallet he ran a hand over his unshaven face and stared round him. The cellar was a large one, the stone floor covered everywhere with straw. Opposite him and let into the wall was a large cupboard which, with the pallet on which Keating sat, formed the only furniture in the place, which apparently was not provided with a means of egress.
But Inspector Keating had discovered the secret of the cupboard some days previously. Somewhere in its recesses was a door, presumably connected with another cellar, but as yet he was not quite clear what caused the rumbling sound that always preceded its use. Invariably it heralded the arrival of the gentlemen in the hoods with his meals.
As he sat there he heard the rumble again and, looking across at the cupboard, was in time to see it open to admit the only two visitors he ever received. Both wore hoods, fashioned from sacks, over their heads, and the smaller of the two carried the tray with its customary load of a cup of tea and two slices of bread and dripping—not very palatable but, as Keating was beginning to discover, always welcome.
The two men maintained exactly the same formula as on previous occasions, the smaller bringing the meal to the captive, while the latter and taller of the two lounged just inside the cupboard holding a pistol.
“One of these days I’m going to break you in bits and feed you to the pigeons in St. Paul’s,” Keating said venomously and picking up the cup drained the contents at a gulp.
“I don’t know who you are,” he continued, “but I suppose you know this means a stretch for you both when I get out?”
He did not expect an answer. So far neither of his visitors had ever betrayed any sign that they heard, save by the ironic gleam in their eyes visible through the slits in the sacks. Consequently he was more than surprised when the taller man stepped into the cellar and spoke.
“Who says you’re going to get out?”
The shorter man’s start and instinctive gesture of caution came just too late. The damage was done and Keating, in the act of biting his slice of bread, paused and looked up. A slow smile spread over his face.
“So it’s Chorley?” he asked delightedly, and saw Chorley’s companion cringe away. “This time you’ve shoved your crooked hoof well and truly in the soup. You and the boy friend are for the high jump as soon as I get out. As for getting out I’m going to get out all right—you’ll be saying the same thing yourself in about five years if the beak is generous.”
He attacked his bread and dripping with considerable enjoyment, while the other removed his improvised mask.
Chorley took out a packet of cigarettes and lighting one blew a thin stream of smoke down his nostrils before replying. He was quite unhurried and apparently unaware of his companion’s increasing agitation.
“The trouble with you is that you talk too much,” he said.
“Well, you aren’t suffering from lockjaw,” Keating grunted, but the remark fell on deaf ears. Chorley was talking again.
“You talk so much that you don’t get time to do anything—it don’t get you anywhere, Flea Powder!”
He walked across the room and pausing a few feet away from Keating stooped down and displaced some straw on the floor.
From where he sat Keating could see the big trap door that the moving of the straw had disclosed but he did not appreciate the significance of the act for some moments.
Raising the lid of the trapdoor, Chorley took a coin from his pocket, held it over the aperture for some moments and then allowed it to fall.
The three men waited in silence for what seemed an eternity and then a faint splash came to their ears.
Without comment Chorley closed the trap and kicked the straw into place. A stifled gasp came from his companion as Chorley walked back to the door of the cupboard.
“A job for the ‘Water Rats,’ eh?” sneered Keating, using the underworld name for the River Police. “I was wrong about that five years, Chorley—it’ll be three weeks—and not the Elinor Glyn kind either.”
A smoke ring curled up from the other’s lips, but that was all the answer he made. His companion walked slowly and unsteadily to the cupboard, and it suddenly occurred to Keating that the man was paralyzed with fright.
The cupboard doors closed and Keating heard the curious rumbling again.
Left alone he looked down thoughtfully at the floor. He made no attempt to disguise the facts to himself. He was ‘up against it’ badly. Not that that worried him, he had been ‘up against it’ before—would be again perhaps. Perhaps—and thinking of Chorley, he wondered.
Chorley, although virtually in the pay of the police, loathed his employers as much as the men he betrayed loathed them. He accepted their pay and hated them, with a certain justification. Eight years previously he had served a stretch in the Scrubbs for which Keating had been responsible. Now the positions were reversed.
Keating looked down at the straw concealing the trapdoor. He had no illusions as to Chorley’s intentions. Somewhere beneath that was one of those little muddy rivers, or perhaps a giant sewer pipe that led out into the river somewhere in Deptford. Flung into that, bound hand and foot, Keating realized that he would have very little chance of being rescued by his colleagues, the “Water Rats,” in any condition but that of decay. The water kept its victims well.
It did not disturb him. It was unpleasant, that was all, but no more unpleasant than any other form of death—at least any form in which a police officer was likely to encounter it. It certainly gave him food for thought and it was still occupying his attention when he next heard the rumbling sound that always announced a visitor.
This time only one of his jailers appeared. It was the shorter man, and he appeared to have some difficulty in walking. As he came closer Keating saw that he was trembling violently, and for no apparent reason. The reason, however, manifested itself when the man suddenly tore off his hood and revealed the face of Lou Staam.
Keating stared in amazement at the little German Jew. He knew of Lou as did every one else, but he had never come under police observation, and that he should be one of the captors had never occurred to Keating.
“So you’re in on this, Lou?” Keating asked, and saw that the old man was holding a bunch of keys. He also saw that Lou was badly frightened.
“It is murder, dot one tinks of, hein?” he asked suddenly. “Chorley have carried de grudge mit heemself for long times. Me I bear no one de grudge.”
His tone was almost a whine.
“No, you bear no one de grudge,” Keating agreed.
“Murder, I don’ like heem,” Lou quavered, turning to peer into the shadows behind him. “Always I haf keep dese hans dean.” He spread out “dese hans,” and conclusively proved that his last remark was an exaggeration in more senses than one. But in one sense it was true. Lou had never been party to a murder. He had not condoned the attack on the Colonel.
“No, I don’ like heem, Keating. Chorley no good. Murder no good. How you say, if I let you go, hein? You gif me enough time to get meinself out of der country, hein?”
He was almost cringing, and Keating, who had expected a slightly different situation, nodded.
“I clear out meinself. After all—my pile—I make heem—I haf make heem long times. I go someveres away from Chorley. Der shop and mein fren’s I miss, but Chorley, no. He miss me.”
Keating thought t
hat possible, but was unaware that the old man had realized the true significance of the remark.
“He miss me, soon,” Lou continued, “but not eef you sen heem up, hein? You go now, queekly, by der lift—no one know you gone—dey not miss you yet—you get der Squad and raid der place?”
His eagerness was almost pitiable as with trembling hands he unfastened the band that encircled Keating’s waist.
Keating stood up and Lou, getting down on his knees pulled up the trap door and stared down into the depths.
“Cold,” he whispered to himself. “Very wet—Inspector. Not a nice death—we leave der trap like dis—dey tink you get away somehow.”
He looked up vaguely.
“Me, I go away fast and Chorley is taken by der Squad.”
He paused suddenly and cringed.
Keating half turned and heard the peculiar rumbling that had frequently puzzled him.
As he looked at the cupboard he saw a platform, apparently the base of the cupboard, begin to rise slowly, and turned again to hear Lou speaking.
“Der lift. Someone use heem! Vait!”
He crouched listening, and then spoke again.
“Mebbe some of der boys use heem to go to der room above dis—der room where always dey play cards.”
“The room below the shop?” Keating asked.
But Lou was still listening intently.
The rambling ceased for a moment and Keating strode across the cellar to the cupboard and peered into its dark shadows. The structure went back a long way to the stone wall behind, and looking upwards he could see a faint light by which he contrived to make out the outline of the shaft leading to it.
As he stood there the rumbling commenced again and from the corner of his eye he saw that Lou was staring at the cupboard in a kind of helpless stupor.
In those seconds Keating realized that whoever was using the lift had the cellar as his object, and he realized also what that stood for. One of two things—either that Chorley was descending to carry out the threat contained in his earlier pantomime, or else Lou’s absence was discovered.