by Peter Baron
A few cozy wickerwork chairs stood about the apartment and a small gate-legged table completed the furniture and served as a seat for two of the seven men who occupied the room.
Of the others, three were seated on the floor before the fire and the remaining two stood, one at either of the windows that looked out on the front of the veranda.
All seven were masked and that formed the only apparent link between them. Apart from their masks it would have been difficult to have found a more dissimilar gathering of men. The pursuit of crime forms some curious companionships and it was perhaps the cosmopolitan element in the Squid’s gang that was responsible for its invariable success.
Tonight, contrary to the Squid’s rules, they were talking, albeit in lowered tones. One of the men at the window turned round and addressed the room. A small man, in a dark tweed suit.
“Anyone got the time?” he demanded in the hoarse voice of a Cockney.
“Eleven o’clock, mon,” answered one of those by the fire in a broad Scotch accent.
The man who had spoken first grunted and resumed his watch over the downs.
“Don’t be impatient, mon ami,” said one of the Scot’s neighbors. “He’s not due yet. He comes neither before nor after the appoint’ time. He is always joost punctual. Oh, ver’ punctual, vraiment.”
He laughed pleasantly.
For some moments there was a silence, broken only by the crackling of the logs in the fireplace.
Then: “This is to be the last haul, I understand,” said one of the two seated on the table. “I wonder why?”
His voice, like the Frenchman’s, was refined and softly modulated.
“Cold feet!” was the sneering answer from the tall big-boned man at the other window.
“No one ‘as accuse M’sieu the Squid of col’ feets, ever,” protested the Frenchman.
“Froggy, I said cold feet and I’ll tell a man I meant it. Elveden”—the nasal American voice hardened—“is getting there every time and the Squid’s getting out, while the going’s good, eh dude?”
The man who had diverted the conversation into its present channel declined to be drawn.
“I’d give something to know where the ‘stuff’ is,” he said slowly.
“The Squid’s taking care o’ that orl right,” rejoined the Cockney who had first spoken. “Trust ‘im fer that. An’ if yer wants a finger in the pie, yer gotter keep yer eyes on ‘im. Funny them other blokes ain’t showed up yet, ain’t it?”
One of the Frenchman’s neighbors at the fire looked up swiftly.
“No, it is not funny—for them,” he said. His voice had an almost feline purr in it that was not English. Something of the bizarre Oriental lay behind the sinister sweetness of that tone.
“Gone bughouse?” queried the American politely.
He eyed the other with cold suspicion.
His glance was met with cool dispassionate eyes.
“Come across with the goods,” invited the American.
“That means explain, yes?” asked the man from the Orient. “I mean that one already has died—we know that——”
“Do we?” asked the Cockney. “ ‘Oo was it?”
“Mr. Pendleton Thyme,” was the soft answer. “I myself once met Mr. Thyme. He was not the sort of man to die defending anything. You remember, perhaps, the description of Mr. Thyme in the papers. Short and fat. So was one of our friends who is missing tonight.”
“O’ course, it ain’t possible, by no manner o’ means, that there was more’n one fat man in the world,” commented the Cockney sarcastically.
“I may be wrong,” the Oriental conceded, “but the newspapers say that no locks were forced and that keys were used. Does not that point to collusion between Mr. Thyme and the Squid? And was not the bank a convenient ‘clearing house’? When a sum of money is stolen and someone wishes to pay an identical amount into a bank the next day, that bank may think awkward thoughts! Thyme’s, if I am correct, would ask no questions. And again, Thyme died. Why? Because after the robbery, the police investigation would follow, and Thyme, under police examination, might have betrayed something. I think I am right.”
The Scot interposed: “Losh, mon, wull ye tell me the mon Thyme was one o’ us? Ye saprise me, an’ wha’ aboot the other?”
“I know not anything of the other,” responded the Oriental. “I merely suggest that he has gone the same way as our friend Thyme. This other, he was not the type of man to be absent at a—what do you call it, my friend?”
He looked inquiringly at the big American.
“Clean-up,” was the laconic rejoinder.
“Yes, a clean-up,” continued the Oriental. “Our friend had beady, greedy eyes. Without doubt he would be here! Oh, yes!”
“Looks ter me like the Squid is plannin’ to ‘op it wiv the sparklers,” interrupted the Cockney again. “Me, I shouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t show his dial at all, but just slipped his cable and done a bunk!”
Another silence fell. The crude statement had opened up a new line of thought.
“What do you think our share will be, Uncle Sam?” asked the “dude,” his ‘Varsity English contrasting strangely with the Cockney’s lingo.
The American shrugged.
“Thet’s fer thet goldamed Squid to decide,” he said. “I don’t even know how much we cleaned up on our deals. It’s his say-so, I guess. He’s got the goods, but if he starts monkeying about, someone’ll get his fer good and keeps, maybe. I’m telling you, I’m reckoning on a show down tonight, so I cum prepared!” He tapped his hip pocket significantly. “You hombres heeled?”
The others nodded.
“Good! If Mr. Squid thinks he’s playing me fer a sucker, he’ll go bye-byes, pronto!”
He turned back to the window again and peered out across the moonlit downs.
The Frenchman chuckled and looked across at his Scottish neighbor, dividing his attention between the room and the downs outside.
“Voila, mon ami Jock,” he said cheerfully. “You hear what our frien’ l’Americain say, isn’t it? We shall all have our share. Bien, we shall retire and live sober, respectable lives hereafter, I think.”
The Scot laughed broadly.
“Hoots, laddie,” he chuckled. “Dinna be sich a muckle fule. The on’y sober Scots are dead, ye ken?”
The laugh that greeted this sally was abruptly stilled by the “dude’s” companion at the table, a staid man of middle height who had taken no part in the conversation until then.
“Surely, the Squid should be due soon?” he asked nervously in tones from which the deference of the menial was not entirely absent.
“Naw, ‘e ain’t,” snapped the Cockney, “but it’s about time—’1st! Shet that row, you blokes. There’s suffin’ movin’ abaht aht-side.”
The American corroborated the statement with a brief nod.
Together they looked out. Not twenty paces away a figure was moving in the direction of the bungalow.
“That’s him,” the American affirmed in a tense whisper. “I’d rekernise that dome anywheres.”
The shape outside had taken definite form. Previously it had been half-hidden by intervening bushes, now it showed clear, silhouetted against the skyline, the grotesque head that was so familiar to the seven in the little room.
Steadily the figure came on, passed out of sight round the corner, and reaching the door, tapped twice.
The Cockney’s companion at the window stepped hastily to the door and opened it.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” said a muffled voice.
As one man the gang bowed, the three by the fire scrambling to their feet and moving back to make way for their leader.
With a short nod the Squid strode to the fireplace and set his back to it.
Seven pairs of inquiring eyes were turned on him.
Apparently unconscious of the flying time, he put his hands in his pockets and watched them silently.
The gang exchanged wary glances. This wa
s unlike the Squid. Never before had he dallied on business. Something was in the wind.
It was!
From outside came without warning the strident siren of a police whistle. Like a flash the gang spun round and glanced at the windows.
“Cops!” screamed the Cockney.
“Frame up!” snarled the American and whirled on the Squid, reaching for his pistol.
“Put ‘em up!” snapped the Squid, and, looking at the two very purposeful-looking pistols which had appeared in his hands, fourteen arms shot up in the air.
Outside a small host of figures that had risen at the police whistle swooped suddenly on the bungalow.
The door was flung open and a sergeant of the police appeared with a pistol in his hand.
“Got ‘em,” he said with a satisfied smile, and six policemen filed past him into the room.
The little band of trapped men stood as if petrified, eyeing the police and their supposed leader in blank wonder.
More police entered until the room was almost unpleasantly full.
The Squid removed his mask with a sigh of relief and a gasp broke from the American.
“Elveden!” he snarled. “So it’s you, you dirty lop-eared jackal!”
The Inspector smiled pleasantly.
“Run through them for arms, sergeant,” he directed, “and take off their masks.”
In five minutes the seven men were standing in a line before the Inspector, disarmed, maskless, and handcuffed.
The sergeant at Elveden’s request handed him the masks.
None of the seven spoke. The coup had been too unexpected.
Elveden, smiling thoughtfully, pocketed his pistols and surveyed them slowly.
“Quite a decent catch, sergeant,” he said at length.
His eyes rested on the Englishman, whom the American had referred to as “dude.”
“Peter Staverton, I believe?” he asked mockingly. “Gentleman—sometime—and forger. To what base uses, Mr. Staverton. What a career! Eton, Balliol—and Dartmoor!”
The calm face of Staverton did not alter one iota, but the remark drew a sneer from the Cockney.
Elveden looked at the second man in the line.
“Ah, our old friend John the butler,” he murmured cordially. “I wonder how many trusting families have taken you into their bosoms and discoursed to their friends on the wonderful manservant they had acquired, since I saw you last?”
“I have not been in service lately, sir,” responded John tranquilly.
“No?” asked Elveden, and turned on the Oriental.
“A lovely haul,” he murmured. “Maharajah, you would have done better to have remained in India. The susceptible lady on the boat is more than a little displeased at the cruel deception you played on her a year ago. I refer to the little matter of the diamonds. And you, ‘Slim’?”
He stared thoughtfully at the American.
“Bad company, Slim,” he said reprovingly, “for an honest motor thief, although I fancy I heard something about the sudden death of one of your clients a year ago, didn’t I? I think so! I also heard something about extradition and the chair!”
He smiled engagingly.
“Can the funny stunt,” growled Slim. “You got us hog-tied, so quit splitting that dial o’ yourn from ear to ear, you coyote.”
“Harsh words, Slim,” sighed Elveden and passed on to the others. “And Jock and Soapy and surely—yes, the Count. How is business, Count—still—er—confidential?”
The Frenchman’s aristocratic face remained impassive.
“Rather more reserved than—er—confidential today, aren’t we?” jeered Elveden.
He turned to the sergeant.
“Get this pretty little bunch down to the police car, quick,” he ordered. “I’m not sure how much time we’ve got. I shall want you and five others at once.”
The sergeant saluted and signaled to his men, who filed out in pairs, each couple taking a gangster between them.
Elveden took the Squid’s mask and placed it out of sight behind one of the wickerwork chairs.
He turned to find Freddie Leicester surveying him amiably from the doorway.
“Bagged the whole jolly little Sunday League, didn’t you?” enquired Freddie facetiously.
Elveden nodded.
“Lucky you tipped me off about that ‘Good evening, gentlemen’ business,” he said, smiling slightly at the recollection. “The whole crew kow-towed like good little boys. I wondered if I could hold ‘em long enough to let the sergeant get busy. Everything went off all right fortunately.”
Freddie leant against the doorpost and smiled complacently. “So far,” he said enigmatically, “everything has certainly gone swimmingly. I thought this place was more likely than the other two. Gives him a chance to fly across the ocean if he gets cornered, you see. The killing of Marky must have been arranged as a final settlement before making a get-away. We might have had to keep this place and the others under observation for weeks.”
He glanced at his watch.
“I’ll be getting,” he murmured. “He might drop in any minute and I don’t want to spoil the reception.”
Elveden eyed him narrowly.
“I’d like to know where you come in, in this act,” he said.
“I don’t! I go out,” answered Freddie. “I dislike violence!” He turned to the door, but halted as Elveden laid a restraining hand on his arm.
“I don’t like your mysterious movements, Mr. Leicester,” the Inspector said. “They need explaining.”
Freddie shrugged.
“My poor old cop,” he said wearily. “I’m doing your job and all that sort of rot.”
“Indeed?”
“Has it occurred to you,” pursued Freddie, “that our fishy friend, being a Squid, likes the old aqua salta, and that he chose this place for a reason?”
“You gave me the reason two nights ago.”
“I did,” Freddie agreed, “and it still holds good. The briny is a good avenue of escape for our friend, and for the love of Mike don’t ask how. He’s not a Channel swimmer.”
“You mean there’s a yacht or boat of some kind waiting somewhere to take him off?” asked Elveden. “There may be, but he won’t use it, I promise you. He’s walking into a trap this time.” Freddie remained unimpressed.
“He’s been known to walk out of others and left them to nip your fingers! Be reasonable, old egg. I gave you a sound tip about this bungalow and I’m giving you another equally sound. Let me stagger round for a piece. You can’t afford to take risks.”
The Inspector released him.
“As you like,” he said noncommittally, “but it’s wasted effort. Once that man sets foot here, I’ll hold him—tight.”
“It wouldn’t be a bad idea to let him indicate the old spoils first,” Freddie suggested.
“I’m not quite a fool,” the other retorted sharply. “And there’s more at stake than the recovery of a few jewels.”
Almost unconsciously his hand crept to the pocket in which the Commissioner’s letter lay.
He half-smiled. He wasn’t likely to spoil the chance of getting those “few jewels”—and with them a certain mysterious letter, concerning which his superior’s instructions were very definite.
“Yes, there’s a lot at stake, as you tritely observe,” said Freddie lazily.
With the words a new idea seemed to occur to Elveden.
“I can’t help thinking,” he said, “that you know rather more about this business than the layman should.”
Freddie grinned vacantly and stepped back.
“I’m glad you’ve got that far with the think-box.”
“I’ve half a mind——“ Elveden began, but the door had closed.
For a few moments the Inspector stood undecided, then he strode to the door, threw it open, and stepped outside.
There was no sign of Freddie.
He returned to the room slowly and was still thinking it over when the sergeant, accompanie
d by five constables, reappeared.
The six men were dressed in the gangsters’ clothes and the sergeant, stepping forward, proffered the American’s suit to the Inspector.
“Put those masks on,” directed Elveden, producing the black silk slips, and, hastily slipping off the black suit, gloves and shirt he had been wearing, donned the American’s rig-out.
Once dressed, he closed the door and motioned to the others to take up their positions, selecting a place at one of the windows for himself.
“We shall play this farce out until he shows us where the stuff is,” he said. “Remember, when he calls out a number you tap out the word ‘present’ in Morse. You all remember what I told you at the station?”
He tapped out the word on the woodwork of the window and six heads nodded in agreement.
“You’ll take your cue from me,” he concluded. “When I cover him, you’ll do likewise. I’m taking no risks this time. He’s a killer! And, remember, no one else speaks. That’s all.”
He turned to the sergeant.
“Did you have any trouble down at the van?” he asked.
“No, sir,” replied the sergeant. “One or two got a little angry at having to give up their clothes, but we managed to persuade ‘em in the end. They’re on their way to Seaford by now.” Elveden nodded and sat there thinking—about Freddie Leicester.
XL. THE COMEDY THAT BECAME A TRAGEDY
The Vauxhall ate up the miles steadily. A huge red burnished shape that flashed along in the moonlight purring gently.
Crouched over the wheel, the Squid held his car to the road, the keen wind playing on his unprotected features. His mood was pleasantly tinged with cynicism.
He drove swiftly and well. He had not long in which to make his rendezvous, owing to social activities which had demanded his presence in town.
Handling his wheel deftly, he swung out and around a long, slim, green Renault traveling sedately in the same direction.
Behind him the lights of Reigate faded, Crawley slid by, and he flashed through Handcross on his way to Cuckfield.