Dick nodded. The marble palace on the Strand Embankment in which the fabulously rich Mr. Maitland operated, was one of the show buildings of London.
“I’m in his office—exchange clerk,” said the young man, “and Philo could do a whole lot for me if dad would pull out an invitation. As it is, I seem doomed to be a clerk for the rest of my life.”
The white hand of the girl touched his lips.
“You’ll be rich some day, Ray dear, and it is foolish to blame daddy.”
The young man growled something under the hand, and then laughed a little bitterly.
“Dad has tried every get-rich-quick scheme that the mind and ingenuity of man—”
“And why?”
The voice was harsh, tremulous with anger. None of them had noticed the reappearance of John Bennett.
“You’re doing work you don’t like. My God! What of me? I’ve been trying for twenty years to get out. I’ve tried every silly scheme—that’s true. But it was for you—”
He stopped abruptly at the sight of Gordon’s embarrassment.
“I invited you to dinner, and I’m pulling out the family skeleton,” he said with rough good-humour.
He took Dick’s arm and led him down the garden path between the serried ranks of rose bushes.
“I don’t know why I asked you to stay, young man,” he said. “An impulse, I suppose…maybe a bad conscience. I don’t give these young people all the company they ought to have at home, and I’m not much of a companion for them. It’s too bad that you should be the witness of the first family jar we’ve had for years.”
His voice and manner were those of an educated man. Dick wondered what occupation he followed, and why it should be so particularly obnoxious that he should be seeking some escape.
The girl was quiet throughout the meal. She sat at Dick’s left hand and she spoke very seldom. Stealing an occasional glance at her, he thought she looked preoccupied and troubled, and blamed his presence as the cause.
Apparently no servant was kept at the cottage. She did the waiting herself, and she had replaced the plates when the old man asked:
“I shouldn’t think you were as young as you look, Mr. Gordon—what do you do for a living?”
“I’m quite old,” smiled Dick. “Thirty-one.”
“Thirty-one?” gasped Ella, going red. “And I’ve been talking to you as though you were a child!”
“Think of me as a child at heart,” he said gravely. “As to my occupation—I’m a persecutor of thieves and murderers and bad characters generally. My name is Richard Gordon—”
The knife fell with a clatter from John Bennett’s hand and his face went white.
“Gordon—Richard Gordon?” he said hollowly.
For a second their eyes met, the clear blue and the faded blue.
“Yes—I am the Assistant Director of Prosecutions,” said Gordon quietly. “And I have an idea that you and I have met before.”
The pale eyes did not waver. John Bennett’s face was a mask.
“Not professionally, I hope,” he said, and there was a challenge in his voice.
Dick laughed again as at the absurdity of the question. “Not professionally,” he said with mock gravity.
On his way back to London that night his memory worked overtime, but he failed to place John Bennett of Horsham.
II - A TALK ABOUT FROGS
Maitlands Consolidated had grown from one small office to its present palatial proportions in a comparatively short space of time. Maitland was a man advanced in years, patriarchal in appearance, sparing of speech. He had arrived in London unheralded, and had arrived, in the less accurate sense of the word, before London was aware of his existence.
Dick Gordon saw the speculator for the first time as he was waiting in the marble-walled vestibule. A man of middle height, bearded to his waist; his eyes almost hidden under heavy white brows; stout and laborious of gait, he came slowly through the outer office, where a score of clerks sat working under their green-shaded lamps, and, looking neither to the right nor left, walked into the elevator and was lost to view.
“That is the old man: have you seen him before?” asked Ray Bennett, who had come out to meet the caller a second before. “He’s a venerable old cuss, but as tight as a soundproof door. You couldn’t pry money from him, not if you used dynamite! He pays Philo a salary that the average secretary wouldn’t look at, and if Philo wasn’t such an easygoing devil, he’d have left years ago.”
Dick Gordon was feeling a little uncomfortable. His presence at Maitlands was freakish, his excuse for calling as feeble as any weak brain could conceive. If he had spoken the truth to the flattered young man on whom he called in business hours, he would have said: “I have idiotically fallen in love with your sister. I am not especially interested in you, but I regard you as a line that will lead me to another meeting, therefore I have made my being in the neighbourhood an excuse for calling. And because of this insane love I have for your sister, I am willing to meet even Philo, who will surely bore me.” Instead he said:
“You are a friend of Philo—why do you call him that?”
“Because he’s a philosophical old horse—his other name is Philip,” said the other with a twinkle in his eye. “Everybody is a friend of Philo’s—he’s the kind of man that makes friendship easy.”
The elevator door opened at that moment and a man came out. Instinctively Dick Gordon knew that this bald and middle-aged man with the good-humoured face was the subject of their discussion. His round, fat face creased in a smile as he recognized Ray, and after he had handed a bundle of documents to one of the clerks, he came over to where they were standing.
“Meet Mr. Gordon,” said Ray. “This is my friend Johnson.” Philo grasped the extended hand warmly. “Warm” was a word which had a special significance in relation to Mr. Johnson. He seemed to radiate a warming and quickening influence. Even Dick Gordon, who was not too ready to respond, came under the immediate influence of his geniality.
“You’re Mr. Gordon of the Public Prosecution Department—Ray was telling me,” he said. “I should like you to come one day and prosecute old man Maitland! He is certainly the most prosecutable gentleman I’ve met for years!”
The jest tickled Mr. Johnson. He was, thought Dick, inclined to laugh at himself.
“I’ve got to get back: he’s in a tantrum this morning. Anyone would think the Frogs were after him.”
Philo Johnson, with a cheery nod, hurried back to the lift. Was it imagination on Dick’s part? He could have sworn the face of Ray Bennett was a deeper shade of red, and that there was a look of anxiety in his eyes.
“It’s very good of you to keep your promise and call…yes, I’ll be glad to lunch with you, Gordon. And my sister will also, I’m sure. She is often in town.”
His adieux were hurried and somewhat confused. Dick Gordon went out into the street puzzled. Of one thing he was certain: that behind the young man’s distress lay that joking reference to the Frogs.
When he returned to his office, still sore with himself that he had acted rather like a moon-calf or a farm hand making his awkward advances to the village belle, he found a troubled-looking chief of police waiting for him, and at the sight of him Dick’s eyes narrowed.
“Well?” he asked. “What of Genter?”
The police chief made a grimace like one who was swallowing an unpleasant potion.
“They slipped me,” he said. “The Frog arrived in a car—I wasn’t prepared for that. Genter got in, and they were gone before I realized what had happened. Not that I’m worried. Genter has a gun, and he’s a pretty tough fellow in a rough house.”
Dick Gordon stared at and through the man, and then: “I think you should have been prepared for the car,” he said. “If Genter’s message was well founded, and he is on the track of the Frog, you should have expected a car. Sit down, Wellingdale.”
The grey-haired man obeyed.
“I’m not excusing myself,” he growled. “The Frogs have got me rattled. I treated them as a joke once.”
“Maybe we’d be wiser if we treated them as a joke now,” suggested Dick, biting off the end of a cigar. “They may be nothing but a foolish secret society. Even tramps are entitled to their lodges and pass-words, grips and signs.” Wellingdale shook his head.
“You can’t get away from the record of the past seven years,” he said. “It isn’t the fact that every other bad road-criminal we pull in has the frog tattooed on his wrist. That might be sheer imitation—and, in any case, all crooks of low mentality have tattoo marks. But in that seven years we’ve had a series of very unpleasant crimes. First there was the attack upon the charge d’affaires of the United States Embassy—bludgeoned to sleep in Hyde Park. Then there was the case of the President of the Northern Trading Company—clubbed as he was stepping out of his car in Park Lane. Then the big fire which destroyed the Mersey Rubber Stores, where four million pounds’ worth of raw rubber went up in smoke. Obviously the work of a dozen fire bugs, for the stores consist of six big warehouses and each was fired simultaneously and in two places. And the Frogs were in it. We caught two of the men for the Rubber job; they were both ‘Frogs’ and bore the totem of the tribe—they were both ex-convicts, and one of them admitted that he had had instructions to carry out the job, but took back his words next day. I never saw a man more scared than he was. And I can’t blame him. If half that is said about the Frog is true, his admission cost him something. There it is, Mr. Gordon. I can give you a dozen cases. Genter has been two years on their track. He has been tramping the country, sleeping under hedges, hogging in with all sorts of tramps, stealing rides with them and thieving with them; and when he wrote me and said he had got into touch with the organization and expected to be initiated, I thought we were near to getting them. I’ve had Genter shadowed since he struck town. I’m sick about this morning.”
Dick Gordon opened a drawer of his desk, took out a leather folder and turned the leaves of its contents. They consisted of pages of photographs of men’s wrists. He studied them carefully, as though he were looking at them for the first time, though, in truth, he had examined these records of captured men almost every day for years. Then he closed the portfolio thoughtfully and put it away in the drawer. For a few minutes he sat, drumming his fingers on the edge of the writing-table, a frown on his youthful face.
“The frog is always on the left wrist, always a little lob-sided, and there is always one small blob tattooed underneath,” he said. “Does that strike you as being remarkable?”
The Superintendent, who was not a brilliant man, saw nothing remarkable in the fact.
III - THE FROG
It was growing dark when the two tramps, skirting the village of Morby, came again to the post road. The circumvention of Morby had been a painful and tiring business, for the rain which had been falling all day had transformed the ploughed fields into glutinous brown seas that made walking a test of patience.
One was tall, unshaven, shabby, his faded brown coat was buttoned to his chin, his sagged and battered hat rested on the back of his head. His companion seemed short by comparison, though he was a well-made, broad-shouldered man, above the average height.
They spoke no word as they plodded along the muddy road. Twice the shorter man stopped and peered backward in the gathering darkness, as though searching for a pursuer, and once he clutched the big man’s arm and drew him to hiding behind the bushes that fringed the road. This was when a car tore past with a roar and a splattering of liquid mud.
After a while they turned off the road, and crossing a field, came to the edge of a wild waste of land traversed by an ancient cart track.
“We’re nearly there,” growled the smaller man, and the other grunted. But for all his seeming indifference, his keen eyes were taking in every detail of the scene. Solitary building on the horizon…looked like a barn. Essex County (he guessed this from the indicator number on the car that had passed); waste land probably led to a disused clay pit…or was it quarry? There was an old notice-board fixed to a groggy post near the gate through which the cart track passed. It was too dark to read the faded lettering, but he saw the word “lime.” Limestone? It would be easy to locate.
The only danger was if the Frogs were present in force. Under cover of his overcoat, he felt for the Browning and slipped it into his overcoat pocket.
If the Frogs were in strength, there might be a tough fight. Help there was none. He never expected there would be. Carlo had picked him up on the outskirts of the city in his disreputable car, and had driven him through the rain, tacking and turning, following secondary roads, avoiding towns and hamlets, so that, had he been sitting by the driver’s side, he might have grown confused. But he was not. He was sitting in the darkness of the little van, and saw nothing. Wellingdale, with the shadows who had been watching him, had not been prepared for the car. A tramp with a motorcar was a monstrosity. Even Genter himself was taken aback when the car drew up to the pavement where he was waiting, and the voice of Carlo hissed, “Jump in!”
They crossed the crest of a weed-grown ridge. Below, Genter saw a stretch of ground littered with rusting trollies, twisted Decourville rails, and pitted with deep, rain-filled holes. Beyond, on the sharp line of the quarry’s edge, was a small wooden hut, and towards this Carlo led the way.
“Not nervous, are you?” he asked, and there was a sneer in his voice.
“Not very,” said the other coolly. “I suppose the fellows are in that shack?”
Carlo laughed softly.
“There are no others,” he said, “only the Frog himself. He comes up the quarry face—there’s a flight of steps that come up under the hut. Good idea, eh? The hut hangs over the edge, and you can’t even see the steps, not if you hang over. I tried once. They’d never catch him, not if they brought forty million cops.”
“Suppose they surrounded the quarry?” suggested Genter, but the man scoffed.