by Peter Baron
What must that man’s feelings be?
At the moment they were chiefly of amusement and for a full minute, standing silently behind his unsuspecting quarry, the Squid savored the joke.
Then he struck—hard!
The constable rolled over without a sound and, caught in strong arms, was deposited silently on the floor.
Straightening himself, the Squid glanced hastily round and then slipped from the room. Crossing the hall, he gained the drive and set off at a steady run through the rain.
Reaching the gate, he paused for a moment and hastily removed his waxen head. Without the shelter of the taxi to protect him from inquisitive eyes, the mask was likely to prove an embarrassment, and for a moment he sought a hiding place from which he could retrieve it at some future date. He chose a dry spot beneath one of the bushes just inside the gate, and, pushing the head well under cover, set off into the darkness without a glance back.
Which was unfortunate. Had he turned and seen Freddie emerge from his hiding place to stand and gaze amazedly after him, the Squid’s future course of action might have been completely changed. As it was, he ran on unsuspecting and left Freddie to retrieve the mask from the bushes.
Freddie was trying to recover from a nasty shock.
Having heard someone running down the drive a few minutes previously, he had hidden with the intention of making a surprise attack. The arrival of the Squid had changed all that and in the shock of recognition he had been too dazed to take action.
For a full two minutes after the Squid had vanished, Freddie stood with blank wonder in his eyes, and then his alert ear caught again the sound of running feet.
Half a minute later, Elveden measured his length over a prostrate figure—Freddie’s—in the gateway. The constable, unable to avoid the collision, piled on top of them and only a sudden swerve saved the sergeant from a like fate.
Freddie groaned drearily and sat up, rubbing his hand over his forehead as the Inspector and constable—Elveden swearing and the constable wishing he could—sorted themselves out.
“Some scrapper,” sighed Freddie, getting leisurely to his feet and caressing his jaw.
“My God, you dirty trickster!” snapped Elveden as he recognized Freddie. “Have you let him through? Where is he?”
“Flitting gladsomely across the verdant grass,” rejoined Freddie cheerfully.
Elveden whipped round on the constable.
“Arrest that man!” he snarled. “Take him to Wimbledon! Sergeant, follow me.”
Freddie put out a restraining hand. “Oi,” he said in a pained tone, “not so much hurry. He can’t get far, and in any case I know where he’ll go eventually.”
Elveden stared angrily at him.
“What the devil do you mean?” he demanded skeptically.
“There’s no hurry,” said Freddie mildly. “We can get to the place friend Squid is making for long before he can.”
“We can,” snarled Elveden, “if we know where he is going.”
“We do,” grinned Freddie. “Come ye apart, laddie, I would fain discourse amain.”
Elveden regarded Freddie suspiciously for a moment and then, without comment, turned to the constable.
“Ring up the mortuary people,” he directed, “and notify them about Jerry the Lag.”
The constable saluted and made for the house.
“He got his?” Freddie asked slowly.
“Who? Loseley?” asked Elveden. “Yes. Vitriol and three bullets.”
For a moment neither spoke and then the Inspector tapped Freddie on the shoulder.
“Now get it off your chest,” he invited crisply, “and talk fast, Mr. Leicester, because should it chance that you have not a good reason for allowing the Squid to slip through, when you could have stopped him, it will be awkward for you. In other words you may go up for a stretch.”
“I think not,” murmured Freddie sleepily. “No—really, my dear old fruit, I think not. Going up always makes me so dashed giddy and I positively loathe stretching. Now, touching the matter of our little playmate, who skipped after knocking me cold in the gateway, I take it that the general idea revolves somewhat exhilaratingly around shoving the old lad in clink? Yes? No?”
“Possibly not unaccompanied,” agreed Elveden.
Freddie let the comment pass unchallenged.
“Well, to be perfectly frank,” he said gently, “I have resorted to a little morsel of finesse, a little subtle subterfuge. You follow me? As a matter of fact, our dear friend did not stretch me stone cold in the gateway as I humorously led you to suppose.”
Elveden’s mouth set firmly.
“You have doubtless some good reason,” he suggested pointedly, “for making that dangerous admission.”
“Marvelous,” breathed Freddie, wonderingly, turning in the rain to peer with awe at his companion. “Positively and indubitably epic, old hoss. I have. Lend me one of your ears, friend. The cleanest preferably.”
He removed his hat and allowed something short of a gallon of water to trickle off its brim.
“A few moments ago,” he began, “our old chum the Squid came through this gateway like a steam engine. He was, I think, in a hurry. It is immaterial. What, however, is material is the fact that a chance flash of lightning threw his dear face into sudden relief, and, comrade, I recognized that sweet never-to-be-forgotten chivvy.”
Elveden started.
“Indeed,” he snapped. “I was under the impression that he was masked.”
“Wrong, dear lad, all wrong,” sighed Freddie thrusting the mask under Elveden’s nose. “Gaze on it and weep. I watched him hide this beastly thing—and rightly. It is an offense to the eye, but a useful one.”
Elveden eyed him doubtfully.
“Go on,” he said tersely, “since you recognized him—who was he?”
“Ah! There we have thee on the hip, infidel,” smiled Freddie. “Who, as you very rightly observe, was our little absent ray of sunlight? I am not saying yet, dearest!”
“Get down to it,” snapped Elveden. “I want that man under lock and key.”
“Hopeless,” sighed Freddie, “absolutely hopeless! Let this salient fact percolate, my friend. To grab our diverting acquaintance now is to box up the whole stunt irretrievably. To wait awhile is not only to rope in the dear man, but also to collect his ill-gotten gains, and also the Sunday League over which he presides. A commendable notion, a ripe idea? Yes? No?”
Elveden tapped his forehead thoughtfully. “There’s something in it,” he observed grudgingly.
“Probably,” agreed Freddie, studying the Inspector’s head, “but if I hadn’t heard a rattling sound, I should have suggested—air.”
Elveden eyed him suspiciously but without comprehension.
“From my experience of the Squid, it’s safer to get him first. He’s apt to get clear when one tries side-tracking,” he said.
“That,” Freddie pointed out, “is because your side-tracking activities have lacked the diplomacy that my peerless brains can supply. You will no doubt out of your sweet and generous heart admit that, while no doubt an excellent institution in its way, Scotland Yard is not even a possible runner where brain is concerned. Beef, yes; brain, no—decidedly no.’7
Elveden grunted and repressed an urgent desire to demonstrate the quality of the Yard’s “beef.”
“Cut out the funny stuff and get down to it,” he ordered. “I want that man’s name.”
“As you like,” said Freddie, obligingly, “but what’s in a name? I should have thought his old body was more use. In either case you’re going to be a sadly disappointed man. I’m running this show.”
“On whose authority?” Elveden demanded.
“I’ll tell you,” smiled Freddie, “if you promise to toe the line.”
The Inspector made a hasty decision.
“Go ahead,” he invited, “and heaven help you if your scheme falls down.”
Freddie smiled sweetly. “Do not, I entreat you, dear
soul, hurry me,” he said. “The jolly old constitush has suffered a severe jolt. The general plan of campaign is——”
What the general plan of campaign was did not immediately transpire.
At that moment the sergeant put in an appearance.
“The ambulance is coming through at once, sir,” he said to Elveden.
“All right,” the Inspector replied. “Remain here till it comes in, and make out your report.”
He turned away.
“Supposing,” suggested Freddie, “we amble gently back and collar a bus? There are certain disadvantages attendant on standing in two feet of water, and getting wetter every minute.”
He set off across the Common at a brisk pace, the Inspector following closely and shielding the mask from the rain with his coat.
“Gosh,” Freddie said suddenly, “why has not that scaly reptile James come to make the horizon still more foul? He should have been here. I rang him nearly an hour ago. He’ll crash round when the jolly old excitement is over.”
But in that Freddie erred.
Jimmy had been having a little excitement on his own.
Immediately on receipt of Freddie’s message, Jimmy had “de-garaged his powerful roadster” and set out for Wimbledon. Not until he reached the Common did his difficulties begin and he realized that Freddie’s directions had been a little lacking in essential details.
Peering through the rain-smeared windscreen, he applied the brakes and slowed suddenly to a standstill by a caped policeman.
“Where the deuce am I, old chap?” he asked with a puzzled smile.
The policeman stepped alongside the car.
“On the Park Side Road, sir,” he answered. “That,” pointing behind, “is Putney Heath, and that,” waving his hand in front, “is Wimbledon Common. What do you want, sir?”
“Too much to give a detailed account of now,” retorted Jimmy with a grin, “but at the moment I am looking for the Rushmere Pond.”
“Yes, sir,” said the policeman a little doubtfully. “Keep on until the road branches off into the High Street on the left and you’re there. Rushmere Pond is a little way on to the Common on the right when you reach the bend in the road.”
“Thanks,” nodded Jimmy, and let in the clutch. The policeman stepped back to his sanctuary by the trees as the car slid on into the night.
Jimmy progressed steadily through the rain and darkness and eventually pulled the Rover to a standstill at what he judged was the bend in the road mentioned by his guide.
Turning up his collar and pulling his hat down against the rain, he stepped out and peered around.
Apparently his brief inspection was unproductive. With a disgruntled glance at the wide expanse of common vanishing into the darkness, he sat down on the dashboard of the car and silently cursed the invisible Freddie.
Fast falling rain soon made his position unpleasant and with another grunt he rose to his feet.
About to enter his car, he paused as a wild figure came suddenly into the radius of his headlights. A hatless figure, staggering with apparent exhaustion; a figure rain-sodden and disheveled. The man’s face could not be seen as he lurched on, head down to the driving wind.
“Want a lift?” hailed Jimmy, cupping his hands over his mouth to make the words carry.
The lurching stranger waved a feeble hand and what reply he made, if any, was drowned by derisive howls of wind as it hurled itself at his spent figure.
With a view to assisting the disheveled one, Jimmy ran the few intervening paces and held out a friendly hand.
The newcomer staggered on into his arms wearily, straightened suddenly and struck at the unsuspecting reporter.
Without even a gasp, Craven flung up his arms and reeled backwards into six inches of water lapping oozily in a ditch at the side of the road.
And there they found him.
It was Freddie who made the discovery as he reached the main road with Elveden.
“Signs of animal life,” he observed lightly and, pausing, peered closely at the groaning figure huddled in the ditch.
With the Inspector’s assistance he dragged Jimmy up into the road.
“So this,” he muttered bitterly, “is what was keeping Jimmy?
There is no accounting for tastes. Personally I do not find ditches the acme of attraction. However, the distorted workings of the Press mind are wonderful. Evidently his ultimate idea of perfect bliss is sweet repose in two feet of water.”
At that moment Jimmy Craven roused and opened his eyes.
“Is the center transept safe?” he asked weakly.
“Delirium tremens,” murmured Freddie sorrowfully. “All right, James, you are among friends.”
“Friends?” jeered the reporter. “Was it you who threw the Crystal Palace?” He looked round dismally.
“Before the roof fell in,” he complained bitterly, “I distinctly remember possessing a car.” He glared at Freddie and the Inspector. “Oh! generation of vipers! To lure a man to this wilderness, brain him, and then pinch his car. Give me back my racer.”
He struggled to his feet and surveyed his mud-bespattered clothes ruefully.
Freddie took him firmly by the arm.
“James,” he said, “explain, before my frayed reason gives out and I strangle you.”
Jimmy explained.
A short laugh escaped his friend as the recital concluded. “Quite the touch of our delicate friend,” he murmured. “How long ago was it that the Squid, to quote comrade Froissart, upped and soaked you on the bean—or, as in our less involved diction, it is broadly translated, interpreted or otherwise rendered intelligible—handed you a domino on the dome?”
“Come again,” grinned Jimmy. “Might have been hours or minutes.”
He picked up his hat from the roadway.
“You let me in for this,” he reminded Freddie. “We are going to have a pleasant hour at the tailor’s tomorrow and you are going to transact the money side of the bargain.”
Freddie nodded absently, and his face clouded over abruptly.
“You have got bad news to break to Leslie, Jimmy,” he said somberly. “Marcus is dead.”
Jimmy’s teeth snapped.
“God!” he ground out. “When?” He caught the other by the arm savagely. “No fooling, Freddie—quick!”
Freddie’s eyes blazed.
“I’m not fooling, damn you!” he snarled, and wrenched his arm free. “This hits me where I live. If only I’d known.”
His voice softened abruptly.
“Sorry, old man,” he apologized. “The strain of being funny in these circumstances is getting me down.”
And in a hard voice he retailed the information Elveden had supplied concerning the Baronet’s death.
Jimmy listened with a set face.
It was a dejected trio that made its way back, trudging dispiritedly through the rain.
“Her father first, and now Marky,” murmured Jimmy distractedly.
“And God alone knows how many of the Force,” muttered Elveden slowly. “I think that swine is Erlik himself, but despite that well get him!”
He rammed his hands into his pockets and strode on.
“Unless,” observed Freddie, “someone sends him to the realms of darkness first.”
“The few who’ve tried it are dead,” answered Elveden.
“There are others,” Freddie rejoined, “and the possession of that wax mask is going to help matters considerably. To-morrow, Elveden, you and I are going to be exceedingly busy!”
“Meaning?”
“That tomorrow night the Squid will be down at a certain bungalow in Sussex,” Freddie replied.
Elveden looked suspicious.
“You seem to know a lot about it.”
“I ought to,” agreed Freddie. “The bungalow is mine! Damn this rain! For the love of Mike, has anyone got a gasper?”
The Inspector halted in the rain.
“I think we are going to be busy,” he said, meaningly. �
�I rather think you’d better tell me who the Squid is, Mr. Leicester.”
Freddie laughed lightly but did not answer, and Elveden, tom between conflicting emotions, stood irresolute.
“I fancy that I might get the information from the agents who leased Rushmere House to the Squid,” he said slowly, eyeing Freddie intently. “The alterations to the interior could never have been discussed by letter and were sufficiently peculiar to arouse interest. I think the agent’s description of his tenant might help matters.”
Freddie started. That was true.
Elveden noted the start with some satisfaction. Decidedly, he would sound the agents the following—or rather that—day. It was then a quarter to two in the morning.
But Elveden had reckoned without his host. A subsequent inquiry at Messrs. Binny & Co. revealed the fact that their principal had transacted the deal and for some unaccountable reason Mr. Binny had not turned up that morning.
Which was not surprising considering that he was lying in the bottom of a car bound for the docks, from which he was eventually transferred to the smelly hold of a tramp steamer bound for the Marquesas!
XXXIX. THE GATHERING OF THE CLAN
On the cliffs above Cuckmere Haven stands a square, low bungalow, solitary and unprotected from the gusts of the downs and the winds of the sea. It perches on the summit of a little mound.
The wind, howling with rather more fury than usual around the wooden walls, made them creak protestingly. The smoke from the chimney was blown hither and thither across the downs, and far below came the sound of a vicious sea sweeping in white-crested waves and lashing the shore with demoniacal rage.
So much for the exterior.
Of the interior, the lounge hall only need be described. On that particular night it was the only room in use and, although lacking some of the comforts of a more commodious room, it was nevertheless a cheery refuge from the gale that spent itself outside.
The walls, devoid of pictures, were hung here and there with panels of colored beads and plaited straw, and the floor of unplaned wood was covered in places by brightly colored rugs. A door on the right of the fireplace, leading to a bedroom, was flanked on either side by two tall barrel-shaped pots made of wood, in which small ferns waged a losing battle for existence.