by Peter Baron
He turned to the Commissioner: “With my assistance,” he said, “you stand a chance of trapping this fiend. Without it,” he shrugged expressively. “Well, up to date Elveden has succeeded only in making himself a bigger fool than even Nature intended.”
The Inspector flushed angrily, and his next remark was threatening.
“I think we could make you talk, my friend. There are more ways than one of loosening a man’s tongue, however obstinate he may be!”
“In America possibly,” Sir Marcus agreed contemptuously. “In this country the third degree has not yet been legitimatized.”
The Inspector’s retort died on his lips as he encountered the disapproving regard of his superior.
“Who is the Squid?” the Commissioner rapped out suddenly, and the Baronet smiled.
“Obviously your experiences of him in the past have taught you little about his methods,” he said amusedly. “I have no idea of the Squid’s identity, nor could I locate him. Whether he has a fixed abode or not, I do not know. If I could discover that, my work would be more than half done.”
“You have a fixed rendezvous, of course?” interrupted Elveden.
“We have not,” retorted the Baronet. “The first intimation we receive of his need of our services is a letter. I collect mine from the Shaftesbury public-house. The barman there reserves it for me.”
“Is this barman a member of the gang?” asked the Commissioner.
“I think not. I imagine he is merely a go-between. Outside of that, I think he is expected to see, hear and know nothing.”
“And the rest of the gang,” demanded the Commissioner, “who are they? I warn you that to hold back any information will do them no good and yourself less.”
Sir Marcus frowned helplessly.
“The other members are, like myself, masked, and we do not enter into conversation. A rule made by the Squid to prevent us recognizing each other’s voices. We leave after a meeting at stated intervals of five minutes. I am the last to go. The Squid is the first.”
“Do you think you would recognize the Squid’s voice—I presume he does the speaking?” said the Commissioner.
“That is so,” agreed the Baronet, “but his voice is carefully disguised. On some occasions he summons us separately. I have been to many such meetings with him. The interview is held in a taxi, driven by another member of the gang, and is carried on under the auspices of a revolver. Only one man ever tried to bring friends to those interviews. That was Billy Horne, an old friend of Jerry’s. He died suddenly. On one other occasion a man turned King’s Evidence and warned the police of a rendezvous on the understanding that the Squid should not be allowed to find out who was responsible for his capture. It was quite unnecessary. They found the man in a dark alley in Deptford—with a knife in his throat. The rendezvous was not kept, either by the Squid or the rest of the gang, whom he warned, God alone knows how. But of course that is ancient history to you.”
Sir Marcus sat back and calmly studied the Commissioner.
The Commissioner’s expression was curious. Elveden had a shrewd suspicion that the Chief was “swallowing” the cock and bull story far too credulously, but beyond permitting himself a skeptical smile, he kept the suspicion to himself.
“At least you know his future plans,” the Commissioner hazarded suddenly. “What is the next move? I need not tell you that your silence amounts to compounding a felony.”
Loseley shook his head definitely.
“No man alive could tell you his plans,” he answered, “and I doubt if many would attempt it, even if they had the necessary information. Billy Horne’s end—was unpleasant!”
For a moment his face clouded over thoughtfully.
“Inspector Elveden’s move in having me brought here was foolish,” he said slowly. “I think I should almost be justified in demanding police protection. If the object of this interview should come to the ears of the Squid—and he has an uncanny intelligence staff—I should most certainly be put out of the way.”
“I think you overrate the Squid’s powers,” said the Commissioner.
“Believe me, it is impossible,” answered the other swiftly. “For years the police have underrated those powers. He has forestalled every move made against him. That is proof of inside knowledge.”
The Commissioner looked dubious.
“Possibly. However, you realize that I have no alternative but to place you under arrest? We have only your word for proof of your extraordinary explanation, and frankly—it’s not good enough.”
Sir Marcus shrugged indifferently and there was silence for some moments.
At length the Commissioner leant forward curiously.
“What course would you pursue if I were to allow you to retain your liberty?” he asked; and the Inspector started.
The Baronet debated silently for a moment.
“I should retain my dual role,” he said at length. “I have waited long, I can wait longer. In the course of a few days I shall probably have another summons. After that I shall be able to determine my future course. Provided that the Squid remains ignorant of my true identity or my visit here, things will go on very much as before. On the other hand—there will be one more name on the tablet in the family vault: ‘Sacred to the memory of Sir Marcus Loseley, ninth baronet.’ Another unexplained murder, that is all.”
There was a pause during which the Commissioner sat perfectly still, apparently thinking. Eventually he looked at the Baronet.
“I have decided,” he said, “to allow you your freedom, Sir Marcus. Jerry, also, is free to go. I take it that you will hold yourself responsible for him, since your own safety and the chance of jeopardizing the capture of the Squid hangs on it?”
“I think I can trust Jerry,” said Sir Marcus, rising to his feet. “I have a theory for the eradication of criminal tendency, based on kindness. Punishment—the police method—never produces satisfactory results. That is a tip.”
“Sir Marcus on Crime,” said Elveden, “is almost more amusing than inaccurate. Shall I call Jerry, sir?”
The Commissioner nodded, and the Inspector summoned the Lag.
Jerry, entering, looked at the three men thoughtfully, and then crossed to the Commissioner’s table.
“There is some people,” he said distinctly, “as is not so clever as they thinks their perishin’ selves.”
Sir Marcus frowned, but not at the remark.
For a moment he appeared about to speak; then he turned to the door. Jerry followed him and stood for a second in the doorway.
“Good arternoon, Mister Commissioner,” he said. “Good arternoon, Mister Elveden,” and added below his breath something that sounded suspiciously like, “Blast yer!”
The Commissioner stood looking at the door some time after Jerry and his master had left. Then he turned to the Inspector.
“I think,” he murmured tranquilly, “a close observation of Sir Marcus Loseley’s movements in the near future might prove profitable. I admit that we take an enormous and almost unwarrantable risk in allowing him his freedom, but I hope to see it justified. To a certain degree, what he says is true. To date we have had absolutely no success against the Squid, and to arrest Loseley and bring to light his dual identity would scare the Squid off. Whereas if we lie low, sooner or later Loseley will lead us to the Squid. True, Loseley is warned and will be doubly cautious, but that’s your end of the game. And for Heaven’s sake make sure of your man.”
Elveden grunted skeptically.
XXXIV. B 29
At about the same time that Sir Marcus was undergoing his examination in the Assistant Commissioner’s room at Scotland Yard, another conference was taking place in a small office not a hundred miles from Whitehall. The hum of the traffic beneath the single window did little to disturb the air of peaceful serenity in the room.
A tall young man, clad in a perfectly fitting suit of gray, stood by the window looking down on the street in the last rays of the sun and patiently awaited the Chief’s pleas
ure.
At the table a quietly dressed, not unhandsome man wrote steadily, his head, faintly touched with streaks of gray, bent thoughtfully over his work.
The man at the window turned slightly and studied the face of his Chief unobtrusively.
Lionel Mainwaring, head of the Home Diplomatic Intelligence Department, might have been twenty-five, and then again he might have been fifty-five. It was impossible to tell as he sat there writing, his half-serious, half-boyish expression, and the cool, cheerful, but worldly wise eyes producing a conflicting effect that might have denoted either age or youth. As a matter of fact, he was thirty-eight, but that is beside the point.
Putting down his pen, he looked up suddenly and encountered the steady scrutiny of the man by the window.
“Sit down, B 29,” he invited, “I want to talk to you.”
The man by the window drew up a chair and sat in a position which allowed him to watch the street below.
Opening a drawer in his desk, Mainwaring drew out a sheet of notepaper, attached by a clip to a long white envelope. Detaching the paper, he offered it to the other.
B 29 leant forward and took it from his hand.
“Easterdale received this this morning,” said Mainwaring quietly. “I should like you to read it.”
Turning his chair slightly to allow the light from the window to fall on the paper, B 29 studied the close hand-printed communication.
It was undated, unaddressed, and headed “To George Easterdale.” It ran:
“Dear Sir,
Owing to the death of my late associate, Mr. Pendleton Thyme, a certain letter which is of mutual interest has come into my hands. For four years you have been using every endeavor to obtain this letter, and I, after a futile bid for it which ended in the lamentable death of John Richmond, King’s Messenger, have been similarly engaged.
The letter is rather less of a communication than a business proposition, and as such I propose to treat it. Four years ago Worth demanded £50,000 sterling for it, and, failing to obtain the letter by any other means, you were prepared to pay the sum he asked. Since that time its value has increased a hundred per cent. So has its price. For the sum of £100,000, payable when and how to be determined later, I will place the letter in your hands. I give you a time limit of fourteen days from this date. At the expiration of that time limit I shall take steps to find another market for it. From the contents of the letter, which needless to say I have read, I imagine that the French Government would be interested. I enclose a copy of the original which may serve to refresh your memory.
THE SQUID.”
B 29 read the letter slowly and carefully, and then returned it without comment to his Chief, and sat motionless as before.
Mainwaring, opening the accompanying envelope, drew out a second letter, written in the crabbed, easily recognizable handwriting of the Prime Minister, and handed it to his companion.
“That is the enclosure,” he said. “You may as well read that, too. It will give you some idea of the proposition with which we are confronted.”
He sat back and waited while B 29 studied the second letter. It was addressed to “THE RIGHT HONORABLE THE EARL OF LORING.”
“Dear Sir,
On the understanding that I may count on your undivided support in the forthcoming most critical election, I am prepared to ignore your action in supplying arms to the enemies of France in the Sudan.
Please do not assume from this compromise that I either approve or forgive your action in making me virtually responsible for a breach of the treaty with France. It is a violation of the Entente which, were it to become known, would seriously jeopardize the existing friendly relationship with that nation, and, as such, must be regarded as treacherous.
I realize, however, that it lies in your power to split the party and deprive it of several important seats which it is imperative that we retain in order to gain the required majority. Under these circumstances I am compelled to abandon proceedings against you.
Yours faithfully,
GEORGE EASTERDALE
(Prime Minister)
B 29 returned the letter and stared thoughtfully out of the window.
“May I smoke, sir?” he asked at length.
“By all means,” said Mainwaring. “Help yourself.”
He proffered a box of cigarettes which lay on his table.
His companion selected one and lighted it.
“The situation now,” said the Chief, “is ten times worse than it was four years ago, and I’m worried. Easterdale is nearly frantic, and since he has handed the thing over to us, we’ve simply got to see it through.”
“Why the devil was the beastly letter ever written?” groaned B 29.
“I don’t blame Easterdale,” said the Chief. “His hand was forced. He had to take some sort of action when he discovered that Loring Ltd. were supplying arms to the Arabs. It was a paying proposition, of course, or Loring would not have touched it. After all, I suppose the policy of any armament firm must be the encouragement and not the suppression of war.”
“A beautiful policy,” murmured the other.
Mainwaring spread his hands expressively.
“I agree, but the fact remains. Naturally Easterdale realized that it was a breach of the treaty with France and saw that if the facts came out, the Entente would be irretrievably ruined. He took the only possible step when he tackled Loring point-blank. It was a losing hazard from the start. Everyone knows what Loring—but the man’s dead, so we won’t stir up slime!” He took a cigarette and lighted it from the match that B 29 offered.
“Loring of course was a valuable man,” he went on, “so was his brother-in-law, Sir Francis Cane, and when men realize that they are valuable they become unscrupulous. Loring knew that he had Easterdale in the hollow of his hand as far as that deal was concerned. The little combine of capitalists, of whom Loring and Cane were the driving power, held half the important seats in the South and the West London area, and where they led, Chester, Beverley, Morecambe and Leigh-Garon and half a dozen more would follow.”
He frowned angrily and removed the ash from his cigarette.
“Honestly,” he said, “I think Easterdale made the only move on the board. It was risky, of course, but the loss of a dozen valuable seats at that time would have been a catastrophe. He was dead set on putting that Land Bill through then, and the election was a critical one. He simply had to see that the party pulled together to get a majority, and a split would have been fatal to their chances. Either Labor or Liberal would have driven in a wedge and absorbed the wavering votes. It was a ghastly decision for any Prime Minister to have to make and I think he dealt with it courageously. The folly was that he was indiscreet enough to commit the thing to writing!”
There was a silence for some moments, and then the Chief resumed.
“Of course, he got his Bill through and that was all that mattered, but Loring—why, the man must have been mad! Why the devil he didn’t destroy that letter I can’t imagine. Surely he realized that it was a terrible weapon if it fell into the wrong hands? He was crafty enough about some things. It is some consolation to know that whatever money he got out of the Sudan deal was paid over to his blackmailing valet, Worth. If he had not paid, the letter would have been sold to France, and Easterdale and his party and the Entente, not to mention Loring himself, would have been ruined.”
He paused to relight his cigarette, which had gone out while he was talking. B 29 sat motionless, listening.
“When Loring died and the golden goose stopped laying, Worth turned on Easterdale, as you know,” Mainwaring continued, “and John Richmond was sent over to Venice to tackle him. I don’t think Easterdale ever heard the truth about Richmond’s negotiations with Paul Worth. I did, and the story wasn’t a pleasant one. Worth must have bitterly regretted stealing that cursed letter from Loring!”
He puffed out a blue spiral of smoke and studied it thoughtfully.
“Even in those days,” he resumed, �
�this Squid must have been pretty well informed. He knew the inside facts and when you were sent to meet Richmond, he got in first, with fatal results to Richmond.”
He looked thoughtfully at the other. B 29 was smoking furiously and his face was white. It was a bitter memory.
“We know now that Richmond hid that letter in the Loseley tiara,” said the Chief. “About that I wouldn’t venture a personal opinion, but I believe that the C.I.D. have their suspicions about Loseley.”
B 29 nodded without comment.
“At any rate, Mr. Pendleton Thyme beat the Squid over that deal,” continued Mainwaring. “It’s curious, isn’t it, how these twisters play crooked even with their own kind? And yet some fool raved about honor among thieves!”
“The Squid’s a dangerous merchant to trick,” said B 29. “I imagine that Thyme’s death was a direct result of his allowing the Squid to find out that he had removed the paper from the tiara.”
“Undoubtedly,” agreed Mainwaring, “but now the Squid holds it, and he’s a still more dangerous customer.”
“He’s beginning to feel the draft, I think. The C.I.D. are making things pretty hot, although they have had no material success. They’re fairly certain of the identity of at least three of the gang, excluding Thyme. Elveden—rather a smart chap in his way, but confoundedly unlucky—has been ferreting round and he appears to have narrowed down the odds slightly. I tipped him off to watch Blatz, the manager of the Nocturnes Club. I fancy he’s in with the Squid’s little bunch.”
Mainwaring nodded.
“Well, that’s the proposition,” he said. “We must have that confounded letter on or before the 24th—that is, thirteen days hence. On the 25th, if all else fails, Easterdale will have to pay. Not from the Exchequer. To do that he would have to call in the Chancellor and at all costs the thing must be kept quiet. Besides which the Budget would take some explaining with a few sums like that. So it would have to come out of Easterdale’s private purse and that would ruin him. He couldn’t possibly meet it.”
He rose to his feet, and B 29 knew that the interview was at an end.