They came after a long interval—a considerable pile of papers, photographs and fingerprints.
“You can go, Balder—the night man can take them back.” He settled himself down to an enjoyable night’s reading.
He was nearing the end of the pile when he came to the portrait of a young man with a drooping moustache and a bush of curly hair. It was one of those sharp positives that unromantic police officials take, and showed whatever imperfections of skin there were. Beneath the photograph was the name, carefully printed: “Henry John Lyme, R.V.”
“R.V.” was the prison code. Every year from 1874 to 1899 was indicated by a capital letter in the alphabet. Thereafter ran the small letters. The “R” meant that Henry J. Lyme had been sentenced to penal servitude in 1891. The “V” that he had suffered a further term of convict imprisonment in 1895.
Elk read the short and terrible record. Born in Guernsey in 1873, the man had been six times convicted before he was twenty (the minor convictions are not designated by letters in the code). In the space at the foot of the blank in which particulars were given of his crime, were the words:
“Dangerous; carries firearms.” In another hand, and in the red ink which is used to close a criminal career, was written: “Died at sea. Channel Queen. Black Rock. Feb. 1, 1898.”
Elk remembered the wreck of the Guernsey mail packet on the Black Rocks.
He turned back the page to read particulars of the dead man’s crimes, and the comments of those who from time to time had been brought into official contact with him. In these scraps of description was the real biography. “Works alone,” was one comment, and another: “No women clue—women never seen with him.” A third scrawl was difficult to decipher, but when Elk mastered the evil writing, he half rose from the chair in his excitement. It was:
“Add to body marks in general D.C.P.14 frog tattooed left wrist. New. J.J.M.”
The date against which this was written was the date of the man’s last conviction. Elk turned up the printed blank “D.C.P.14” and found it to be a form headed “Description of Convicted Person.” The number was the classification. There was no mention of tattooed frogs: somebody had been careless. Word by word he read the description:
“Henry John Lyme, a. Young Harry, a. Thomas Martin, a. Boy Peace, a. Boy Harry (there were five lines of aliases). Burglar (dangerous; carries firearms). Height 5 ft. 6 in. Chest 38. Complexion fresh, eyes grey, teeth good, mouth regular, dimple in chin. Nose straight. Hair brown, wavy, worn long. Face round. Moustache drooping; wears side-whiskers. Feet and hands normal. Little toe left foot amputated first joint owing to accident, H.M. Prison, Portland. Speaks well, writes good hand. Hobbies none. Smokes cigarettes. Poses as public official, tax collector, sanitary inspector, gas or water man. Speaks French and Italian fluently. Never drinks; plays cards but no gambler. Favourite hiding place, Rome or Milan. No conviction abroad. No relations. Excellent organizer. Immediately after crime, look for him at good hotel in Midlands or working to Hull for the Dutch or Scandinavian boats. Has been known to visit Guernsey…”
Here followed the Bertillon measurements and body marks—this was in the days before the introduction of the fingerprint system. But there was no mention of the Frog on the left wrist. Elk dropped his pen in the ink and wrote in the missing data. Underneath he added:
“This man may still be alive,” and signed his initials.
X - ON HARLEY TERRACE
So writing, the telephone buzzed, and in his unhurried way he finished his entry and blotted it before he took up the instrument.
“Captain Gordon wishes you to take the first taxi you can find and come to his house—the matter is very urgent,” said a voice. “I am speaking from Harley Terrace.”
“All right.” Elk found his hat and umbrella, stopped long enough to return the records to their home, and went out into the dark courtyard.
There are two entrances to Scotland Yard: one that opens into Whitehall and was by far the best route for him, since Whitehall is filled with cabs; the other on to the Thames Embankment, which, in addition to offering the longest way round, would bring him to a thoroughfare where, at this hour of the night, taxis would be few and far between. So engrossed was Elk with his thoughts that he was on the Embankment before he realized where he was going. He turned toward the Houses of Parliament into Bridge Street, found an ancient cab and gave the address. The driver was elderly and probably a little fuddled, for, instead of stopping at No. 273, he overshot the mark by a dozen houses, and only stopped at all on the vitriolic representations of his fare.
“What’s the matter with you, Noah?—this ain’t Mount Ararat!” snapped Elk as he descended. “You’re boozed, you poor fish.”
“Wish I was,” murmured the driver, holding out his hand for the fare.
Elk would have argued the matter but for the urgency of the summons. Whilst he was waiting for the driver to unbutton his many coats to find change, he glanced back along the street. A car was standing near the door of Dick Gordon’s house, its head lights dimmed to the least possible degree. That in itself was not remarkable. The two men who waited on the pavement were. They stood with their backs to the railings, one (as he guessed) on either side of the door. To him came the soft purring of the motorcar’s engine. He took a step back and brought the opposite pavement into his range of vision. There were two other men, also lounging idly, and they were exactly opposite 273.
Elk looked round. The cab had stopped before a doctor’s house, and the detective did not take a long time to make up his mind.
“Wait till I come out.”
“Don’t be long,” pleaded the aged driver. “The bars will be shut in a quarter of an hour.”
“Wait, Batchus,” said Elk, who had a nodding acquaintance with ancient mythology, but only a hazy idea of pronunciation. Bacchus growled, but waited.
Fortunately, the doctor was at home, and to him Elk revealed his identity. In a few seconds he was connected with Mary Lane Police Station.
“Elk, Central Office, speaking,” he said rapidly, and gave his code number. “Send every man you can put your hand on, to close Harley Terrace north and south of 273. Stop all cars from the moment you get my signal—two long two short flashes. How soon can your men be in place?”
“In five minutes, Mr. Elk. The night reliefs are parading, and I have a couple of motor-trucks here—just pinched the drivers for being drunk.”
He replaced the receiver and went into the hall.
“Anything wrong?” asked the startled doctor as Elk slid back the jacket of his automatic and pushed the safety catch into place.
“I hope so, sir,” said Elk truthfully. “If I’ve turned out the division because a few innocent fellows are leaning against the railings of Harley Terrace, I’m going to get myself into trouble.”
He waited five minutes, then opened the door and went out. The men were still in their positions, and as he stood there two motor-trucks drove into the thoroughfare from either end, turned broadside in the middle of the road and stopped.
Elk’s pocket lamp flashed to left and right, and he jumped for the pavement.
And now he saw that his suspicions were justified. The men on the opposite pavement came across the road at the double, and leapt to the running-board of the car with the dim lights as it moved. Simultaneously the two who had been guarding the entrance of 273 sprang into the machine. But the fugitives were too late. The car swerved to avoid the blocking motor-truck, but even as it turned, the truck ran backwards. There was a crash, a sound of splintering glass, and by the time Elk arrived, the five occupants of the car were in the hands of the uniformed policemen who swarmed at the end of the street.
The prisoners accepted their capture without resistance. One (the chauffeur) who tried to throw away a revolver unobtrusively, was detected in the act and handcuffed, but the remainder gave no trouble.
At the police-station Elk had a view of his prisoners. Four very fine specimens of the genus tramp, wearing their new ready-to-wear suits awkwardly. The fifth, who gave a Russian name, and was obviously the driver, a little man with small, sharp eyes that glanced uneasily from face to face.
Two of the prisoners carried loaded revolvers; in the car they found four walking-sticks heavily weighted.
“Take off your coats and roll up your sleeves,” commanded the inspector.
“You needn’t trouble, Elk.” It was the little chauffeur speaking. “All us boys are good Frogs.”
“There ain’t any good Frogs,” said Elk. “There’s only bad Frogs and worse Frogs and the worst Frog of all. But we won’t argue. Let these men into their cells, sergeant, and keep them separate. I’ll take Litnov to headquarters.”
The chauffeur looked uneasily from Elk to the station sergeant.
“What’s the great idea?” he asked. “You’re not allowed to use the third degree in England.”
“The law has been altered,” said Elk ominously, and re-snapped the handcuffs on the man’s wrists.
The law had not been altered, but this the little Russian did not know. Throughout the journey to headquarters he communed with himself, and when he was pushed into Elk’s bare-looking room, he was prepared to talk…
Dick was waiting for the detective when he came back to Harley Terrace, and heard the story.
“I never dreamt that it was a plant until I spotted the lads waiting for me,” said Elk. “Of course you didn’t telephone; they caught me napping there. Thorough! The Frogs are all that! They expected me to leave headquarters by the Whitehall entrance, and had a taxi waiting to pick me up, but in case they missed me that way, they told off a party to meet me in Harley Terrace. Thorough!”
“‘Who gave them their orders?”
Elk shrugged.
“Mr. Nobody. Litnov had his by post. It was signed ‘Seven,’ and gave him the rendezvous, and that was all. He says he has never seen a Frog since he was initiated. Where he was sworn in he doesn’t remember. The car belongs to Frogs, and he receives so much a week for looking after it. Ordinarily he is employed by Heron’s Club—drives a truck for them. He tells me that there are twenty other cars cached in London somewhere, just standing in their garages, and each has its own driver, who goes once a week to give it a clean up.”
“Heron’s Club—that is the dance club which Lola and Lew Brady are interested in!” said Dick thoughtfully, and Elk considered.
“I never thought of that. Of course, it doesn’t mean that the management of Heron’s know anything about Litnov’s evening work. I’ll look up that club.”
He was saved the trouble, for the next morning, when he reached the office, he found a man waiting to see him.
“I’m Mr. Hagn, the manager of the Heron’s Club,” he introduced himself. “I understand one of my men has been in trouble.”
Hagn was a tall, good-looking Swede who spoke without any trace of a foreign accent.
“How have you heard that, Mr. Hagn?” asked Elk suspiciously. “The man has been under lock and key since last night, and he hasn’t held any communication with anybody.”
Mr. Hagn smiled.
“You can’t arrest people and take them to a police-station without somebody knowing all about it,” he said with truth. “One of my waiters saw Litnov being taken to Mary Lane handcuffed, and as Litnov hasn’t reported for duty this morning, there was only one conclusion to be drawn. What is the trouble, Mr. Elk?”
Elk shook his head.
“I can’t give you any information on the matter,” he said. “Can I see him?”
“You can’t even see him,” said Elk. “He has slept well, and sends his love to all kind friends.”
Mr. Hagn seemed distressed.
“Is it possible to discover where he put the key of the coal cellar?” he urged. “This is rather important to me. This man usually keeps it.”
The detective hesitated.
“I can find out,” he said, and, leaving Mr. Hagn under the watchful eyes of his secretary, he crossed the yard to the cells where the Russian was held.
Litnov rose from his plank bed as the cell door opened.
“Friend of yours called,” said Elk. “Wants to know where you put the key of the coal cellar.”
It was only the merest flicker of light and understanding that came to the little man’s eyes, but Elk saw it.
“Tell him I believe I left it with the Wandsworth man,” he said.
“Um!” said Elk, and went back to the waiting Hagn.
“He said he left it in the Pentonville Road,” said Elk untruthfully, but Mr. Hagn seemed satisfied.
Returning to the cells, Elk saw the gaoler.
“Has this man asked you where he was to be taken from here?”
“Yes, sir,” said the officer. “I told him he was going to Wandsworth Prison—we usually tell prisoners where they are going on remand, in case they wish to let their relatives know.”
Elk had guessed right. The inquiry about the key was prearranged. A telephone message to Mary Lane, where the remainder of the gang were held, produced the curious information that a woman, reputedly the wife of one of the men, had called that morning, and, on being refused an interview, begged for news about the missing key of the coal cellar, and had been told that it was in the possession of “the Brixton man.”
“The men are to be remitted to Wormwood Scrubbs Prison, and they are not to be told where they are going,” ordered Elk.
That afternoon a horse-driven prison-van drew out of Cannon Row and rumbled along Whitehall. At the juncture of St. Martin’s Lane and Shaftesbury Avenue, a carelessly-driven motor lorry smashed into its side, slicing off the near wheel. Instantly there came from nowhere a crowd of remarkable appearance. It seemed as if all the tramps in the world had been lying in wait to crowd about the crippled van. The door was wrenched open, and the gaoler on duty hauled forth. Before he could be handled, the van disgorged twenty Central Office men, and from the side streets came a score of mounted policemen, clubs in hand. The riot lasted less then three minutes. Some of the wild-looking men succeeded in making their escape, but the majority, chained in twos, went, meekly enough, between their mounted escorts.