The Complete Four Just Men (35 page)

His breezy independence had won for him many friends, but it had made him enemies too, and as he walked thoughtfully along the street leading from the station, he realized that in the sergeant he had an enemy of more than average malignity.

Why should this be? It puzzled him. After all, he was only doing his duty. That he was also exceeding his duty did not strike him as being sufficient justification for the resentment of his superior, for he had reached the enthusiastic age of life where only inaction was unpardonable. As to Black, Frank shrugged his shoulders. He could not understand it. He was not of a nature to suspect that the sergeant had any other motive than the perfectly natural desire which all blasé superiors have, to check their too impulsive subordinates.

Frank admitted to himself that he was indeed a most annoying person, and in many ways he understood the sergeant’s antagonism to himself. Dismissing the matter from his mind, he made his way to his tiny house in Croome Street and let himself into his small dining-room.

The walls were distempered, and the few articles of furniture that were within were such as are not usually met with in houses of this quality. The old print above the mantelpiece must have been worth a working-man’s annual income. The small gate-legged table in the centre of the felt-covered floor was indubitably Jacobean, and the chairs were Sheraton, as also was the sideboard. Though the periods may not have harmonized, there is harmony enough in great age. A bright fire was burning in the grate, for the night was bitterly cold. Fellowe stopped before the mantelpiece to examine two letters which stood awaiting him, replaced them from where he had taken them, and passed through the folding doors of the room into a tiny bedroom.

He had an accommodating landlord. Property owners in Somers Town, and especially the owners of small cottages standing on fairly valuable ground, do not as a rule make such renovations as Fellowe required. The average landlord, for instance, would not have built the spacious bathroom which the cottage boasted, but then Fellowe’s landlord was no ordinary man.

The young man bathed, changed himself into civilian clothing, made himself a cup of tea, and, slipping into a long overcoat which reached to his heels, left the house half an hour after he had entered.

Frank Fellowe made his way West. He found a taxi-cab at King’s Cross and gave an address in Piccadilly. Before he had reached that historic thoroughfare he tapped at the window-glass and ordered the cabman to drop him.

At eleven o’clock that night Sergeant Gurden, relieved from his duty, left the station-house. Though outwardly taciturn and calm, he was boiling internally with wrath.

His antipathy to Fellowe was a natural one, but it had become intensified during the past few weeks by the attitude which the young man had taken up towards the sergeant’s protégé.

Gurden was as much of a mystery to the men in his division as Fellowe, and even more so, because the secrecy which surrounded Gurden’s life had a more sinister import than the reservation of the younger man.

Gurden was cursed with an ambition. He had hoped at the outset of his career to have secured distinction in the force, but a lack of education, coupled with an address which was apt to be uncouth and brusque, had militated against his enthusiasm.

He had recognized the limitations placed upon his powers by the authorities over him. He had long since come to realize that hope of promotion, first to an inspectorship, and eventually to that bright star which lures every policeman onward, and which is equivalent to the baton popularly supposed to be in every soldier’s knapsack, a superintendentship, was not for him.

Thwarted ambition had to find a new outlet, and he concentrated his attention upon acquiring money. It became a passion for him, an obsession. His parsimony, his meanness, and his insatiable greed were bywords throughout the Metropolitan police force.

It had become a mania with him, this collecting of money, and his bitterest enmity was reserved for those who placed the slightest obstacle between the officer and the gratification of his ambitions.

It must be said of Colonel Black that he had been most kind. Cupidity takes a lenient view of its benefactor’s morals, and though Sergeant Gurden was not the kind of man willingly to help the lawless, no person could say that an outside broker, undetected of fraud, was anything but a desirable member of society.

Black had made an appointment with him. He was on his way now to keep it. The colonel lived in one of those one-time fashionable squares in Camden Town. He was obviously well off, ran a car of his own, and had furnished No. 60 Serrington Gardens, with something like lavish comfort.

The sergeant had no time to change. There was no necessity, he told himself, for his relations with Black were of such a character that there was no need to stand on ceremony.

The square was deserted at this time of night, and the sergeant made his way to the kitchen entrance in the basement and rang the bell. The door was opened almost instantly by a man-servant.

‘Is that you, sergeant?’ said a voice from the darkness, as Gurden made his way upstairs to the unlighted hall above. Colonel Black turned on the light. He held out a long muscular hand in welcome to the police officer. ‘I am so glad you have come,’ he said.

The sergeant took the hand and shook it warmly. ‘I have come to apologize to you. Colonel Black,’ he said. ‘I have severely reprimanded Police-Constable Fellowe.’

Black waved his hand deprecatingly. ‘I do not wish to get any member of your admirable force into trouble,’ he said, ‘but really this man’s prying into my business is inexcusable and humiliating.’

The sergeant nodded. ‘I can well understand your annoyance, sir,’ he said, ‘but you will understand that these young constables are always a little over-zealous, and when a man is that way he is inclined to overdo it a little.’

He spoke almost pleadingly in his desire to remove any bad impression that might exist in Black’s mind as to his own part in Police-Constable Fellowe’s investigations.

Black favoured him with a gracious bow.

‘Please do not think of it, I beg of you,’ he said. ‘I am perfectly sure that the young constable did not intend willingly to hurt my amour-propre.’ He led the way to a spacious dining-room situated at the back of the house. Whisky and cigars were on the table. ‘Help yourself, sergeant,’ said Colonel Black. He pushed a big comfortable chair forward.

With a murmured word of thanks, the sergeant sank into its luxurious depths. ‘I am due back at the station in half an hour,’ he said, ‘if you will excuse me then.’

Black nodded. ‘We shall be able to do our business in that time,’ he said, ‘but before we go any further, let me thank you for what you have already done.’

From the inside pocket of his coat he took a flat pocket-book, opened it and extracted two bank-notes. He laid them on the table at the sergeant’s elbow. The sergeant protested feebly, but his eyes twinkled at the sight of the crinkling paper. ‘I don’t think I have done anything to deserve this,’ he muttered.

Colonel Black smiled, and his big cigar tilted happily. ‘I pay well for little services, sergeant,’ he said. ‘I have many enemies – men who will misrepresent my motives – and it is essential that I should be forewarned.’

He strode up and down the apartment thoughtfully, his hands thrust into his trousers pockets.

‘It is a hard country, England,’ he said, ‘for men who have had the misfortune to dabble in finance.’

Sergeant Gurden murmured sympathetically.

‘In our business, sergeant,’ the aggrieved colonel went on, ‘it frequently happens that disappointed people – people who have not made the profits which they anticipated – bring extraordinary accusations against those responsible for the conduct of those concerns in which their money is invested. I had a letter today – ’ he shrugged his shoulders – ‘accusing me – me! – of running a bucket-shop.’

The sergeant nodded; he could well understand that aspect of speculation.

‘And one has friends,’ Black went on, striding up and down the apartment, ‘one has people one wants to protect against similar annoyances – take my friend Dr Essley – Essley, E double S L E Y,’ he spelt the name carefully; ‘you have heard of him?’

The sergeant had not heard of any such body, but was willing to admit that he had.

‘There is a man,’ said the colonel, ‘a man absolutely at the head of his profession – I shouldn’t be surprised to learn that even he is no safer from the voice of slander.’

The sergeant thought it very likely, and murmured to the effect.

‘There is always a possibility that malignity will attach itself to the famous,’ the colonel continued, ‘and because I know that you would be one of the first to hear such slander, and that you would moreover afford me an opportunity – a private opportunity – of combating such slander, that I feel such security. God bless you, sergeant!’ He patted the other’s shoulder, and Gurden was genuinely affected.

‘I can quite understand your position, sir,’ he said, ‘and you may be sure that when it is possible to render you any assistance I shall be most happy and proud to render it.’

Again Colonel Black favoured his visitor with a little pat.

‘Or to Dr Essley,’ he said; ‘remember the name. Now, sergeant,’ he went on, ‘I sent for you tonight,’ – he shrugged his shoulders – ‘when I say sent for you, that, of course, is an exaggeration. How can a humble citizen like myself command the services of an officer of the police?’

Sergeant Gurden fingered his moustache self-consciously.

‘It is rather,’ the colonel went on, ‘that I take advantage of your inestimable friendship to seek your advice.’

He stopped in his walk, drew a chair opposite to where the sergeant was sitting, and seated himself.

‘Constable Fellowe, the man of whom I have complained, had the good fortune to render a service to the daughter of Mr Theodore Sandford – I see you know the gentleman.’

The sergeant nodded; he had heard of Mr Theodore Sandford, as who had not? For Theodore Sandford was a millionaire ironmaster who had built a veritable palace at Hampstead, had purchased the Dennington Velasquez, and had presented it to the nation.

‘Your constable,’ continued Colonel Black, ‘sprang upon a motor-car Miss Sandford was driving down a steep hill, the brakes of which had gone wrong, and at some risk to himself guided the car through the traffic when, not to put too fine a point on it, Miss Sandford had lost her head.’

‘Oh, it was him, was it?’ said the sergeant disparagingly.

‘It was him,’ agreed the colonel out of sheer politeness. ‘Now these young people have met unknown to the father of Miss Sandford, and – well, you understand.’

The sergeant did not understand, but said nothing.

‘I do not suggest,’ said the colonel, ‘that there is anything wrong – but a policeman, sergeant, not even an officer like yourself – a policeman!’

Deplorable! said the sergeant’s head, eyes and hands.

‘For some extraordinary reason which I cannot fathom,’ the colonel proceeded, ‘Mr Sandford tolerates the visits of this young man; that, I fear, is a matter which we cannot go into, but I should like you – well, I should like you to use your influence with Fellowe.’

Sergeant Gurden rose to depart. He had no influence, but some power. He understood a little of what the other man was driving at, the more so when –

‘If this young man gets into trouble, I should like to know,’ said Colonel Black, holding out his firm hand; ‘I should like to know very much indeed.’

‘He is a rare pushful fellow, that Fellowe,’ said the sergeant severely. ‘He gets to know the upper classes in some way that I can’t understand, and I dare say he has wormed himself into their confidence. I always say that the kitchen is the place for the policeman, and when I see a constable in the drawing-room I begin to suspect things. There is a great deal of corruption – ’ He stopped, suddenly realizing that he himself was in a drawing-room, and that corruption was an ugly and an incongruous word.

Colonel Black accompanied him to the door.

‘You understand, sergeant,’ he said, ‘that this man – Fellowe, did you call him? – may make a report over your head or behind your back. I want you to take great care that such a report, if it is made, shall come to me. I do not want to be taken by surprise. If there is any charge to answer I want to know all about it in advance. It will make the answering ever so much easier, as I am a busy man.’

He shook hands with the sergeant and saw him out of the house.

Sergeant Gurden went back to the station with a brisk step and a comforting knowledge that the evening had been well spent.

Chapter 3

An adventure in Pimlico

In the meantime our constable had reached a small tavern in the vicinity of Regent Street. He entered the bar and, ordering a drink, took a seat in the corner of the spacious saloon. There were two or three people about; there were two or three men drinking at the bar and talking – men in loud suits, who cast furtive glances at every newcomer. He knew them to be commonplace criminals of the first type. They did not engage his attention: he flew higher.

He sat in the corner, apparently absorbed in an evening paper, with his whisky and soda before him scarcely touched, waiting. It was not the first time he had been here, nor would it be the first time he had waited without any result. But he was patient and dogged in the pursuit of his object.

The clock pointed to a quarter after ten, when the swing-doors were pushed open and two men entered. For the greater part of half an hour the two were engaged in a low-voiced consultation. Over his paper Frank could see the face of Sparks. He was the jackal of the Black gang, the man-of-all-trades. To him were deputed the meanest of Black’s commissions, and worthily did he serve his master. The other was known to Frank as Jakobs, a common thief and a pensioner of the benevolent colonel.

The conversation was punctuated either by glances at the clock above the bar or at Sparks’ watch, and at a quarter to eleven the two men rose and went out. Frank followed, leaving his drink almost untouched.

The men turned into Regent Street, walked a little way up, and then hailed a taxi. Another cab was passing. Frank beckoned it. ‘Follow that yellow cab,’ he said to the driver, ‘and keep a reasonable distance behind, and when it sets down, pass it and drop me farther along the street.’

The man touched his cap. The two cabs moved on. They went in the direction of Victoria, passed the great station on the left, turned down Grosvenor Road on the right, and were soon in the labyrinth of streets that constitute Pimlico. The first cab pulled up at a big gaunt house in a street which had once been fashionable, but which now hovered indescribably between slums and shabby gentility. Frank saw the two men get out, and descended himself a few hundred yards farther along on the opposite side of the street. He had marked the house. There was no difficulty in distinguishing it; a brass plate was attached to the door announcing it to be an employment agency – as, indeed, it was.

His quarry had entered before he strode across towards the house. He crossed the road and took a position from whence he could watch the door. The half-hour after twelve had chimed from a neighbouring church before anything happened. A policeman on his beat had passed Frank with a resentful sidelong glance, and the few pedestrians who were abroad at that hour viewed him with no less suspicion.

The chime of the neighbouring church had hardly died away when a private car came swiftly along the road and pulled up with a jerk in front of the house. A man descended. From where he stood Frank had no difficulty in recognizing Black. That he was expected was evident from the fact that the door was immediately opened to him.

Three minutes later another car came down the street and stopped a few doors short of the house, as though the driver was not quite certain as to which was his destination. The newcomer was a stranger to Frank. In the uncertain light cast by a street lamp he seemed to be fashionably dressed. As he turned to give instructions to his chauffeur, Fellowe caught a glimpse of a spotless white shirt-front beneath the long dark overcoat. He hesitated at the foot of the steps which led to the door, and ascended slowly and fumbled for a moment at the bell. Before he could touch it the door opened. There was a short parley as the new man entered.

Frank, waiting patiently on the other side of the road, saw a light appear suddenly on the first floor.

Did he but know, this gathering was in the nature of a board meeting, a board meeting of a company more heavily financed than some of the most respected houses in the City, having its branches in various parts of the world, its agents, its business system – its very books, if they could be found and the ciphered entries unravelled.

Black sat at one end of the long table and the last arrival at the other. He was a florid young man of twenty-six, with a weak chin and a slight yellow moustache. His face would be familiar to all racing men, for this was the sporting baronet, Sir Isaac Tramber. There was
something about Sir Isaac which kept him on the outside fringe of good society, in spite of the fact that he came of a stock which was indelibly associated with England’s story: the baronetcy had been created as far back as the seventeenth century. It was a proud name, and many of his ancestors had borne it proudly. None the less, his name was taboo, his invitations politely refused, and never
reciprocated.

There had been some unfathomable scandal associated with his name. Society is very lenient to its children. There are crimes and sins which it readily, or if not readily, at any rate eventually, forgives and condones, but there are some which are unpardonable, unforgivable. Once let a man commit those crimes, or sin those sins, and the doors of Mayfair are closed for ever against him. Around his head was a cloud of minor scandal, but that which brought down the bar of good society was the fact that he had ridden his own horse at one of the Midland meetings. It had started a hot favourite – five to two on.

The circumstances of that race are inscribed in the annals of the Jockey Club. How an infuriated mob broke down the barriers and attempted to reach this amateur jockey was ably visualized by the sporting journalists who witnessed the extraordinary affair. Sir Isaac was brought before the local stewards and the case submitted to the stewards of the Jockey Club. The next issue of the Racing Calendar contained the ominous announcement that Sir Isaac Tramber had been ‘warned of
f
’ Newmarket Heath.

Under this ban he sat for four years, till the withdrawal of the notice. He might again attend race-meetings and own horses, and he did both, but the ban of society, that unwritten ‘warning off’ notice, had not been withdrawn. The doors of every decent house were closed to him. Only one friend he had in the fashionable world, and there were people who said that the Earl of Verlond, that old and crabbed and envenomed man, merely championed his unpromising protégé out of sheer perversity, and there was ample justification for this contention of a man who was known to have the bitterest tongue in Europe.

The descent to hell is proverbially easy, and Sir Isaac Tramber’s descent was facilitated by that streak of decadence which had made itself apparent even in his early youth. As he sat at one end of the board-table, both hands stuffed into his trousers pockets, his head on one side like a perky bird, he proved no mean man of business, as Black had discovered earlier in their acquaintanceship.

‘We are all here now, I think,’ said Black, looking humorously at his companion. They had left Sparks and his friend in a room below. ‘I have asked you to come tonight,’ he said, ‘to hear a report of this business. I am happy to tell you that we have made a bigger profit this year than we have ever made in the course of our existence.’

He went on to give details of the work for which he had been responsible, and he did so with the air and in the manner of one who was addressing a crowded board-room.

‘People would say,’ said the colonel oracularly, ‘that the business of outside broker is inconsistent with my acknowledged position in the world of finance; therefore I deem it expedient to dissociate myself from our little firm. But the outside broker is a useful person – especially the outside broker who has a hundred thousand clients. There are stocks of mine which he can recommend with every evidence of disinterestedness, and just now I am particularly desirous that these stocks should be recommended.’

‘Do we lose anything by Fanks’s death?’ asked the baronet carelessly. ‘Hard luck on him, wasn’t it? But he was awfully fat.’

The colonel regarded the questioner with a calm stare. ‘Do not let us refer to Fanks,’ he said evenly. ‘The death of Fanks has very much upset me – I do not wish to speak about it.’

The baronet nodded. ‘I never trusted him, poor chap,’ he said, ‘any more than I trusted the other chap who made such an awful scene here a year ago – February, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes’ said the colonel briefly.

‘It’s lucky for us he died too,’ said the tactless aristocrat, ‘because – ’

‘We’ll get on with the business.’ Colonel Black almost snarled the words. But the baronet had something to say. He was troubled about his own security. It was when Black showed some sign of ending the business that Sir Isaac leant forward impatiently.

‘There is one thing we haven’t discussed, Black,’ he said.

Black knew what the thing was, and had carefully avoided mention of the subject. ‘What is it?’ he asked innocently.

‘These fellows who are threatening us, or rather threatening you; they haven’t any idea who it is who is running the show, have they?’ he asked, with some apprehension.

Black shook his head smilingly. ‘I think not,’ he said. ‘You are speaking, of course, of the Four Just Men.’

Sir Isaac gave a short nod. ‘Yes,’ Black went on, with an assumption of indifference, ‘I have had an anonymous letter from these gentlemen. As a matter of fact, my dear Sir Isaac, I haven’t the slightest doubt that the whole thing is a bluff.’

‘What do you mean by a bluff?’ demanded the other.

Black shrugged his shoulders. ‘I mean that there is no such organization as the Four Just Men. They are a myth. They have no existence. It is too melodramatic for words. Imagine four people gathered together to correct the laws of England. It savours more of the sensational novel than of real life.’ He laughed with apparent ease. ‘These things,’ he said, wagging his finger jocosely at the perturbed baronet, ‘do not happen in Pimlico. No, I suspect that our constable, the man I spoke to you about, is at the bottom of it. He is probably the whole Four of these desperate conspirators.’ He laughed again.

Sir Isaac fingered his moustache nervously. ‘It’s all rot to say they don’t exist; we know what they did six years ago, and I don’t like this other man a bit,’ he grumbled.

‘Don’t like which other man?’

‘This interfering policeman,’ he replied irritably. ‘Can’t he be squared?’

‘The constable?’

‘Yes; you can square constables, I suppose, if you can square sergeants.’ Sir Isaac Tramber had the gift of heavy sarcasm.

Black stroked his chin thoughtfully. ‘Curiously enough,’ he said, ‘I have never thought of that. I think we can try.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Now I’ll ask you just to clear out,’ he said. ‘I have an appointment at half-past one.’

Sir Isaac smiled slowly. ‘Rather a curious hour for an appointment,’ he said.

‘Ours is a curious business,’ replied Colonel Black.

They rose, and Sir Isaac turned to Black. ‘What is the appointment?’ he asked.

Black smiled mysteriously. ‘It is rather a peculiar case,’ he began.

He stopped suddenly. There were hurried footsteps on the stairs without. A second later the door was flung open and Sparks burst into the room. ‘Guv’nor,’ he gasped, ‘they’re watching the house.’

‘Who is watching?’

‘There’s a busy on the other side of the road,’ said the man, speaking graphically. ‘I spotted him, and the moment he saw I noticed him he moved off. He’s back again now. Me and Willie have been watching him.’

The two followed the agitated Sparks downstairs, where from a lower window they might watch, unobserved, the man who dared spy on their actions.

‘If this is the police,’ fumed Black, ‘that dog Gurden has failed me. He told me Scotland Yard were taking no action whatever.’

Frank, from his place of observation, was well aware that he had caused some consternation. He had seen Sparks turn back hurriedly with Jakobs and re-enter the house. He observed the light go out suddenly on the first floor, and now he had a pretty shrewd idea that they were watching him through the glass panel of the doorway.

There was no more he could learn. So far his business had been a failure. It was no secret to him that Sir Isaac Tramber was an associate of Black’s, or that Jakobs and the estimable Sparks were also partners in this concern. He did not know what he hoped to find, or what he had hoped to accomplish.

He was turning away in the direction of Victoria when his attention was riveted on the figure of a young man which was coming slowly along on the opposite sidewalk, glancing from time to time at the numbers which were inscribed on the fanlights of the doors.

He watched him curiously, then in a flash he realized his objective as he stopped in front of No. 63.

In half a dozen steps he had crossed the road towards him. The boy – he was little more – turned round, a little frightened at the sudden appearance.

Frank Fellowe walked up to him and recognized him.

‘You need not be scared,’ he said, ‘I am a police officer. Are you going into that house?’

The young man looked at him for a moment and made no reply. Then, in a voice that shook, he said ‘Yes.’

‘Are you going there to give Colonel Black certain information about your employer’s business?’

The young man seemed hypnotized by fear. He nodded.

‘Is your employer aware of the fact?’

Slowly he shook his head.

‘Did
he
send you?’ he asked suddenly, and Frank observed a note of terror in his voice.

‘No,’ he smiled, wondering internally who the ‘he’ was. ‘I am here quite on my own, and my object is to warn you against trusting Colonel Black.’

He jerked up his head, and Frank saw the flush that came to his face. ‘You are Constable Fellowe,’ he said suddenly.

To say that Frank was a little staggered is to express the position mildly. ‘Yes,’ he repeated, ‘I am Constable Fellowe.’

Whilst he was talking the door of the house had opened. From the position in which he stood Frank could not see this. Black emerged stealthily and came down the steps towards him.

The agent had no other desire than to discover the identity of the man who was shadowing him. He was near enough to hear what the young man said.