“We’re quite alone, Mr. Elk, so you needn’t lower your voice when you talk of my indiscretions. Will you smoke a cigar?”
Elk stretched out his fingers mechanically and selected a big Cabana.
“Unless I’m greatly mistaken, I saw you this morning,” he began.
“You weren’t mistaken at all,” interrupted the other coolly. “You saw me on Whitehall. I was peddling key-rings. My name is Joshua Broad. You haven’t anything on me for trading in a false name.”
The detective lit his cigar before he spoke.
“This apartment must cost you a whole lot to keep up,” he said slowly, “and I don’t blame you for trying to earn something on the side. But it seems to me that peddling key-rings is a very poor proposition for a first-class business man.”
Joshua Broad nodded.
“I haven’t made a million out of that business,” he said, “but it amuses me, Mr. Elk. I am something of a philosopher.”
He lit a cigar and settled himself comfortably in a deep, chintz-covered armchair, his legs crossed, the picture of contentment.
“As an American, I am interested in social problems, and I have found that the best way to understand the very poor of any country is to get right down amongst them.”
His tone was easy, apologetic, but quite self-possessed.
“I think I forestalled any question on your part as to whether I had a licence in my own name, by telling you that had.”
Elk settled his glasses more firmly on his nose, and his eyes strayed to Mr. Broad’s pocket, whither the pistol had returned.
“This is a pretty free country,” he said in his deliberate way, “and a man can peddle key-rings, even if he’s a member of the House of Lords. But one thing he mustn’t do, Mr. Broad, is to stick firearms under the noses of respectable policemen.”
Broad chuckled.
“I’m afraid I was a little rattled,” he said. “But the truth is, I’ve been waiting for the greater part of an hour, expecting somebody to come to my door, and when I heard your stealthy footsteps”—he shrugged—“it was a fool mistake for a grown man to make,” he said, “and I guess I’m feeling as badly about it as you would have me feel.”
The unwavering eyes of Mr. Elk did not leave his face.
“I won’t insult your intelligence by asking you if you were expecting a friend,” he said. “But I should like to know the name of the other guest.”
“So should I,” said the other, “and so would a whole lot of people.”
He reached out his hand to flick the ash from his cigar, looking at Elk thoughtfully the while.
“I was expecting a man who has every reason to be very much afraid of me,” he said. “His name is—well, it doesn’t matter, and I’ve only met him once in my life, and then I didn’t see his face.”
“And you beat him up?” suggested Elk.
The other man laughed.
“I didn’t even beat him up. In fact, I behaved most generously to him,” he said quietly. “I was not with him more than five minutes, in a darkened room, the only light being a lantern which was on the table. And I guess that’s about all I can tell you, Inspector.”
“Sergeant,” murmured Elk. “It’s curious the number of people who think I’m an Inspector.”
There was an awkward pause. Elk could think of no other questions he wanted to ask, and his host displayed as little inclination to advance any further statement.
“Neighbours friends of yours?” asked Elk, and jerked his head toward the passage.
“Who—Bassano and her friend? No. Are you after them?” he asked quickly.
Elk shook his head.
“Making a friendly call,” he said. “Just that. I’ve just country, back from your country, Mr. Broad. A good country but too full of distances.”
He ruminated, looking down at the carpet for a long time, and presently he said:
“I’d like to meet that friend of yours, Mr. Broad—American?”
Broad shook his head. Not a word was spoken as they went up the passage to the front door, and it almost seemed as if Elk was going without saying goodbye, for he walked out absent-mindedly, and only turned as though the question of any farewell had occurred to him.
“Shall be glad to meet you again, Mr. Broad,” he said. “Perhaps I shall see you in Whitehall—”
And then his eyes strayed to the grotesque white frog on the door. Broad said nothing. He put his finger on the imprint and it smudged under his touch.
“Recently stamped,” he drawled. “Well, now, what do you think of that, Mr. Elk?”
Elk was examining the mat before the door. There was a little spot of white, and he stooped and smeared his finger over it.
“Yes, quite recent. It must have been done just before I came in,” he said. And there his interest in the Frog seemed to evaporate. “I’ll be going along now,” he said with a nod.
In the exquisitely appointed drawing-room of Suite No. 6, Lola Bassano sat cuddled up in a deep, over-cushioned chair, her feet tucked under her, a thin cigarette between her lips, a scowl upon her pretty face. From time to time she glanced at the man who stood by the window, hands in pockets, staring down into the square. He was tall, heavily built, heavily jowled, unprepossessing. All the help that tailor and valet gave to him could not disguise his origin. He was pugilist, run to fat. For a time, a very short time, Lew Brady had been welter-weight champion of Europe, a terrific fighter with just that yellow thread in his composition which makes all the difference between greatness and mediocrity in the ring. A harder man had discovered his weakness, and the glory of Lew Brady faded with remarkable rapidity. He had one advantage over his fellows which saved him from utter extinction. A philanthropist had found him in the gutter as a child, and had given him an education. He had gone to a good school and associated with boys who spoke good English. The benefit of that association he had never lost, and his voice was so curiously cultured that people who for the first time heard this brute-man speak, listened open-mouthed.
“What time do you expect that rat of yours?” he asked. Lola lifted her silk-clad shoulders, took out her cigarette to yawn, and settled herself more cosily.
“I don’t know. He leaves his office at five.”
The man turned from the window and began to pace the room slowly.
“Why Frog worries about him I don’t know,” he grumbled. “Lola, I’m surely getting tired of old man Frog.”
Lola smiled and blew out a ring of smoke.
“Perhaps you’re tired of getting money for nothing, Brady,” she said. “Personally speaking, that kind of weariness never comes to me. There is one thing sure: Frog wouldn’t bother with young Bennett if there wasn’t something in it.”
He pulled out a watch and glanced at its jewelled face.
“Five o’clock. I suppose that fellow doesn’t know you’re married to me?”
“Don’t be a fool,” said Lola wearily. “Am I likely to boast about it?”
He grinned and resumed his pacings. Presently he heard the faint tinkle of the bell and glanced at the girl. She got up, shook the cushions and nodded.
“Open the door,” she said, and the man went out of the room obediently.
Ray Bennett crossed the room with quick strides and caught the girl’s hand in both of his.
“I’m late. Old Johnson kept me running round after the clerks had gone. Moses, this is a fine room, Lola! I hadn’t any idea you lived in such style.”
“You know Lew Brady?”
Ray nodded smilingly. He was a picture of happiness, and the presence of Lew Brady made no difference to him. He had met Lola at a supper club, and knew that she and Brady had some business association. Moreover, Ray prided himself upon that confusion of standards which is called “broad-mindedness.” He visualized a new social condition which was superior to the bondage which old-fashioned rules of conduct imposed upon men and women in their relationship one to the other. He was young, clean-minded, saw things as he would have them be. Breadth of mind not infrequently accompanies limitation of knowledge.
“Now for your wonderful scheme,” he said as, at a gesture from her, he settled himself by the girl’s side. “Does Brady know?”
“It is Lew’s idea,” she said lightly. “He is always looking out for opportunities—not for himself but for other people.”
“It’s a weakness of mine,” said Lew apologetically. “And anyway, I don’t know if you’ll like the scheme. I’d have taken it on myself, but I’m too busy. Did Lola tell you anything about it?”
Ray nodded.
“I can’t believe it,” he said. “I always thought such things belonged to magazine stories! Lola says that the Government of Japan wants a secret agent in London. Somebody they can disown, if necessary. But what is the work?”
“There you’ve got me,” said Lew, shaking his head. “So far as I can discover, you’ve nothing to do but live! Perhaps they’ll want you to keep track of what is going on in the political world. The thing I don’t like about it is that you’ll have to live a double life. Nobody must know that you’re a clerk at Maitlands. You can call yourself by any name you like, and you’ll have to make your domestic arrangements as best you know.”
“That will be easy,” interrupted the boy. “My father says I ought to have a room in town—he thinks the journey to and from Horsham every day is too expensive. I fixed that with him on Sunday. I shall have to go down to the cottage some week-ends—but what am I to do, and to whom do I report?”
Lola laughed softly.
“Poor boy,” she mocked. “The prospect of owning a beautiful flat and seeing me every day is worrying him.”
VI - MR. MAITLAND GOES SHOPPING
Eldor Street, Tottenham, was one of thousands of drab and ugly thoroughfares that make up the central suburbs of London. Imagine two rows of houses set on either side of a straight street, lighted at economic intervals by yellow lamps. Each house has a protuberance, called a bay window; each house is separated from the road by iron railings pierced by an iron gate. There is a tiny forecourt in which the hardiest of shrubs battle desperately for existence; there is one recessed door, and on the floor above two windows exactly alike.
Elk found himself in Eldor Street at nine o’clock that night. The rain was pelting down, and the street in consequence was a desert. Most of the houses were dark, for Eldor Street lives in its kitchens, which are back of the houses. In the front window of No. 47 one crack of light showed past the edge of the lowered blind, and, creeping up to the window, he heard, at long intervals, the mumble of conversation.
It was difficult to believe that he was standing at the door of Ezra Maitland’s home. That morning the newspapers had given prominence to the newest speculation of Maitlands Consolidated—a deal involving something over a million. And the master-mind of the concern lived in this squalor!
Whilst he was standing there, the light was extinguished and there came to him the sound of feet in the uncarpeted passage. He had time to reach the obscurity of the other side of the street, when the door opened and two people came out: Maitland and the old woman he had seen. By the light of a street-lamp he saw that Maitland wore an overcoat buttoned to his chin. The old woman had on a long ulster, and in her hand she carried a string bag. They were going marketing! It was Saturday night, and the main street, through which Elk had passed, had been thronged with late shoppers—Tottenham leaves its buying to the last, when food can be had at bargain prices.
Waiting until they were out of sight, Elk walked down the street to the end and turned to the left. He followed a wall covered with posters until he reached a narrow opening. This was the passage between the gardens—a dark, unlighted alleyway, three feet wide and running between tar-coated wooden fences. He counted the gates on his left with the help of his flash-lamp, and after a while stopped before one of them and pushed gently. The gate was locked—it was not bolted. There was a keyhole that had the appearance of use. Elk grunted his satisfaction, and, taking from his pocket a wallet, extracted a small wooden handle, into which he fitted a steel hook, chosen with care from a dozen others. This he inserted into the lock and turned. Evidently the lock was more complicated than he had expected. He tried another hook of a different shape, and yet another. At the fourth trial the lock turned and he pushed open the door gently.
The back of the house was in darkness, the yard singularly free from the obstructions which he had anticipated. He crossed to the door leading into the house. To his surprise it was unfastened, and he replaced his tools in his pocket. He found himself in a small scullery. Passing through a door into the bare passage, he came to the room in which he had seen the light. It was meanly and shabbily furnished. The armchair near the fireplace had broken springs, there was an untidy bed in one corner, and in the centre of the room a table covered with a patched cloth. On this were two or three books and a few sheets of paper covered with the awkward writing of a child. Elk read curiously.
“Look at the dog,” it ran. “The man goes up to the dog and the dog barks at the man.”
There was more in similar strain. The books were children’s primers of an elementary kind. Looking round, he saw a cheap gramophone and on the sideboard half a dozen scratched and chipped records.
The child must be in the house. Turning on the gas, he lit it, after slipping a bolt in the front door to guard against surprise. In the more brilliant light, the poverty of the room staggered him. The carpet was worn and full of holes; there was not one article of furniture which had not been repaired at some time or other. On the dingy sideboard was a child’s abacus—a frame holding wires on which beads were strung, and by means of which the young are taught to count. A paper on the mantelpiece attracted him. It was a copy of the million pound contract which Maitland had signed that morning. His neat signature, with the characteristic flourish beneath, was at the foot.
Elk replaced the paper and began a search of the apartment. In a cupboard by the side of the fireplace he found an iron money-box, which he judged was half-full of coins In addition, there were nearly a hundred letters addressed to E. Maitland, 47 Eldor Street, Tottenham. Elk, glancing through them, recognized their unimportance. Every one was either a tradesman’s circular or those political pamphlets with which candidates flood their constituencies. And they were all unopened. Mr. Maitland evidently knew what they were also, and had not troubled to examine their contents Probably the hoarding instincts of age had made him keep them. There was nothing else in the room of interest. He was certain that this was where the old man slept—where was the child?