“So I’m told, and a nice flat your friend occupies,” he said as he fell in by her side. “I was thinking of hiring it a few days ago. These furnished apartments are difficult to find. Maybe it was a week ago—yes, it was a week ago,” he said carefully; “it was the day before you had your lamentable accident in Shepherd’s Bush.”
“I don’t quite understand you,” she said, on her guard at once.
“The truth is,” said Mr. Broad apologetically, “that I’ve been trying to get at Bron too. I’ve been making a very careful study of the prison staff for the past two months, and I’ve a list of the easy boys that has cost me a lot of money to compile. I suppose you didn’t reach the stage where you persuaded him to talk about his interesting prisoner? I tried him last week,” he went on reminiscently. “He roes to a dance club at Hammersmith, and I got acquainted with him through a girl he’s keen about—you’re not the only young love of his life, by the way.”
She laughed softly.
“What a clever man you are, Mr. Broad!” she said. “No, I’m not very interested in prisoners. By the way, who this person you were referring to?”
“I was referring to Number Seven, who is in Pentonville Gaol,” said Mr. Broad coolly, “and I’ve got an idea he is a friend of yours.”
“Number Seven?” Her perplexity would have convinced a less hardened man than Joshua Broad. “I have an idea that that is something to do with the Frogs.”
“That is something to do with the Frogs,” agreed the other gravely, “about whom I daresay you have read. Miss Bassano, I’ll make you an offer.”
“Offer me a taxi, for I’m tired of walking,” she said, and when they were seated side by side she asked: “What your offer?”
“I offer you all that you require to get out of this country and to keep you out for a few years, until this old Frog busts—as he will bust! I’ve been watching you for a long time, and, if you won’t consider it an impertinence, I like you. There’s something about you that is very attractive—Don’t stop me, because I’m not going to get fresh with you, or suggest that you’re the only girl that ever made tobacco taste like molasses—I like you in a kind of pitying way, and you needn’t get offended at that either. And I don’t want to see you hurt.”
He was very serious; she recognized his sincerity, and the word of sarcasm that rose to her lips remained unuttered.
“Are you wholly disinterested?” she asked.
“So far as you are concerned, I am,” he replied. “There is going to be an almighty smash, and it is more than likely that you’ll get in the way of some of the flying pieces.”
She did not answer him at once. What he had said merely intensified her own uneasiness.
“I suppose you know I’m married?”
“I guessed that,” he answered. “Take your husband with you. What are you going to do with that boy?”
“You mean Ray Bennett?”
It was curious that she made no attempt to disguise either her position or the part that she was playing. She wondered at herself after she was home. But Joshua Broad had a compelling way, and she never dreamt of deceiving him.
“I don’t know,” she said. “I wish he wasn’t in it. He is on my conscience. Are you smiling?”
“At your having a conscience? No, I fancied that was how you stood. And the growing beard?”
She did not laugh.
“I don’t know about that. All I know is that we’ve had—why am I telling you this? Who are you, Mr. Broad?” He chuckled.
“Some day I’ll tell you,” he said; “and I promise you that, if you’re handy, you shall be the first to know. Go easy with that boy, Lola.”
She did not resent the employment of her first name, but rather it warmed her towards this mystery man.
“And write to Mr. Bron, Assistant Chief Warder of Pentonville Gaol, and tell him that you’ve been called out of town and won’t be able to see him again for ten years.”
To this she made no rejoinder. He left her at the door of her flat and took her little hand in his.
“If you want money to get away, I’ll send you a blank cheque,” he said. “There is no one else on the face of the earth that I’d give a blank cheque to, believe me.”
She nodded, most unusual tears in her eyes. Lola was breaking under the strain, and nobody knew it better than the hawk-faced man who watched her as she passed into her flat.
XXVIII - MURDER
The stone which woke Ella Bennett was aimed with such force that the pane cracked. She slipped quickly from bed and pulled aside the curtains. There had been a thunderstorm in the night, and the skies were so grey and heavy, and the light so bad, that she could only distinguish the shape of the man that stood under her window. John Bennett heard her go from her room and came to his door.
“Is it Maitland?” he asked.
“I think so,” she said.
He frowned.
“I can’t understand these visits,” he said. “Do you think he’s mad?”
She shook her head. After the precipitate flight of the old man on his last visit, she had not expected that he would come again, and guessed that only some matter of the greatest urgency would bring him. She heard her father moving about his room as she went through the darkened dining-room into the passage which opened directly on to the garden.
“Is that you, miss?” quavered a voice in the darkness.
“Yes, Mr. Maitland.”
“Is
he
up?” he asked in an awe-stricken whisper.
“You mean my father? Yes, he’s awake.”
“I’ve got to see you,” the old man almost wailed. “They’ve took him.”
“Taken whom?” she asked with a catch in her voice.
“That fellow Balder. I knew they would.”
She remembered having heard Elk mention Balder.
“The policeman?” she asked. “Mr. Elk’s man?”
But he was off on another tack.
“It’s you he’s after.” He came nearer to her and clutched her arm. “I warned you—don’t forget I warned you. Tell him that I warned you. He’ll make it good for me, won’t he?” he almost pleaded, and she began to understand dimly that the “he” to whom the old man was referring was Dick Gordon. “He’s been with me most of the night, prying and asking questions. I’ve had a terrible night, miss, terrible,” he almost sobbed. “First Balder and then him. He’ll get you—not that police gentleman I don’t mean, but Frog. That’s why I wrote you the letter, telling you to come up. You didn’t get no letter, did you, miss?”
She could not make head or tail of what he was saying or to whom he was referring, as he went on babbling his story of fear, a story interspersed with wild imprecations against “him.”
“Tell your father, dearie, what I said to you.” He became suddenly calmer. “Matilda said I ought to have told your father, but I’m afraid of him, my dear, I’m afraid of him!”
He took one of her hands in his and fondled it.
“You’ll speak a word for me, won’t you?” She knew he was weeping, though she could not see his face.
“Of course I’ll speak a word for you, Mr. Maitland, Oughtn’t you to see a doctor?” she asked anxiously.
“No, no, no doctors for me. But tell him, won’t you—not your father, I mean, the other feller—that I did all I could for you. That’s what I’ve come to see you about. They’ve got Balder—” He stopped short suddenly and craned his head forward. “Is that your father?” he asked in a husky whisper.
She had heard the footsteps of John Bennett on the stairs.
“Yes, I think it is, Mr. Maitland,” and at her words he pulled his hand from hers with a jerk and went shuffling down the pathway into the road and out of sight.
“What did he want?”
“I really don’t know, father,” she said. “I don’t think he can be very well.”
“Do you mean mad?”
“Yes, and yet he was quite sensible for a little time. He said they’ve got Balder.”
He did not reply to her, and she thought he had not heard her.
“They’ve taken Balder, Mr. Elk’s assistant. I suppose that means he has been arrested?”
“I suppose so,” said John Bennett, and then: “My dear, you ought to be in bed. Which way did he go?”
“He went toward Shoreham,” said the girl. “Are you going after him, father?” she asked in surprise.
“I’ll walk up the road. I’d like to see him,” said John Bennett. “You go to bed, my dear.”
But she stood waiting by the door, long after his footsteps had ceased to sound on the road. Five minutes, ten minutes passed, a quarter of an hour, and then she heard the whine of a car and the big limousine flew past the gate, spattering mud, and then came John Bennett.
“Aren’t you in bed?” he asked almost roughly.
“No, father, I don’t feel sleepy. It is late now, so I think I’ll do some work. Did you see him?”
“Who, the old man? Yes, I saw him for a minute or two.
“Did you speak to him?”
“Yes, I spoke to him.” The man did not seem inclined to pursue the subject, but this time Ella persisted.
“Father, why is he frightened of you?”
“Will you make me some coffee?” said Bennett.
“Why is he frightened of you?”
“How do I know? My dear, don’t ask so many questions. You worry me. He knows me, he’s seen me—that is all. Balder is held for murder. I think he is a very bad man.”
Later in the day she revived the subject of Maitland’s visit.
“I wish he would not come,” she said. “He frightens me.”
“He will not come again,” said John Bennett prophetically.
* * * * *
The house in Berkeley Square which had passed into the possession of Ezra Maitland had been built by a nobleman to whom money had no significance. Loosely described as one of the show places of the Metropolis, very few outsiders had ever marvelled at the beauty of its interior. It was a palace, though none could guess as much from viewing its conventional exterior. In the gorgeous saloon, with its lapis-lazuli columns, its fireplaces of onyx and silver, its delicately panelled walls and silken hangings, Mr. Ezra Maitland sat huddled in a large Louis Quinze chair, a glass of beer before him, a blackened clay pipe between his gums. The muddy marks of his feet showed on the priceless Persian carpet; his hat half eclipsed a golden Venus of Marrionnet, which stood on a pedestal by his side. His hands clasped across his stomach, he glared from under his white eyebrows at the floor. One shaded lamp relieved the gloom, for the silken curtains were drawn and the light of day did not enter.
Presently, with an effort, he reached out, took the mug of beer, which had gone flat, and drained its contents. This done and the mug replaced, he sank back into his former condition of torpor. There was a gentle knock at the door and a footman came in, a man of powder and calves.
“Three gentlemen to see you, sir. Captain Gordon, Mr. Elk, and Mr. Johnson.”
The old man suddenly sat up.
“Johnson?” he said. “What does he want?”
“They are in the little drawing-room, sir.”
“Push them in,” growled the old man.
He seemed indifferent to the presence of the two police officers, and it was Johnson he addressed.
“What do you want?” he asked violently. “What do you mean by coming here?”
“It was my suggestion that Mr. Johnson should come,” said Dick.
“Oh, your suggestion, was it?” said the old man, and his attitude was strangely insolent compared with his dejection of the early morning.
Elk’s eyes fell upon the empty beer-mug, and he wondered how often that had been filled since Ezra Maitland had returned to the house. He guessed it had been employed fairly often, for there was a truculence in the ancient man’s tone, a defiance in his eye, which suggested something more than spiritual exaltation.
“I’m not going to answer any questions,” he said loudly. “I’m not going to tell any truth, and I’m not going to tell any lies.”
“Mr. Maitland,” said Johnson hesitatingly, “these gentlemen are anxious to know about the child.”
The old man closed his eyes.
“I’m not going to tell no truth and I’m not going to tell no lies,” he repeated monotonously.
“Now, Mr. Maitland,” said the good-humoured Elk, “forget your good resolution and tell us just why you lived in that slum of Eldor Street.”
“No truth and no lies,” murmured the old man. “You can lock me up but I won’t tell you anything. Lock me up. My name’s Ezra Maitland; I am a millionaire. I’ve got millions and millions and millions! I could buy you up and I could buy up mostly anybody! Old Ezra Maitland! I’ve been in the workhouse and I’ve been in quod.”
Dick and his companion exchanged glances, and Elk shook his head to signify the futility of further questioning the old man. Nevertheless, Dick tried again.
“Why did you go to Horsham this morning?” he asked, and could have bitten his tongue when he realized his blunder. Instantly the old man was wide awake.
“I never went to Horsham,” he roared. “Don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m not going to tell you anything. Throw ‘em out, Johnson.”
When they were in the street again, Elk asked a question.
“No, I’ve never known him to drink before,” said Johnson. “He has always been very abstemious so long as I’ve known him. I never thought I could persuade him to talk.”
“Nor did I,” said Dick Gordon—a statement which more than a little surprised the detective.
Dick signalled to the other to get rid of Johnson, and when that philosophical gentleman had been thanked and sent away, Dick Gordon spoke urgently.
“We must have two men in this house at once. What excuse can we offer for planting detectives on Maitland?” Elk pursed his lips.
“I don’t know,” he confessed. “We shall have to get a warrant before we arrest him; we could easily get another warrant to search the house; but beyond that I fear we can’t go, unless he asks for protection.”
“Then put him under arrest,” said Dick promptly. “What is the charge?”
“Hold him on suspicion of being associated with the Frogs, and if necessary move him to the nearest police station. But it has to be done at once.”