Silinski Master Criminal E-Book

Edgar Wallace

• Herausgeber: Librorium Editions
• Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020

Beschreibung

A group of financial conspirators known as the Nine Bears wreak financial havoc for their own gain, and then disappear to a mysterious rendezvous known as "lolo".

Leseprobe

SILINSKI—

MASTER CRIMINAL

Edgar Wallace

© 2020 Librorium Editions

Contents

1: Eclipse

2: Silinski Has a Plan

3: Some Disappearances

4: Introducing T.B. Smith

5: The Anticipators

6: At Bronte's Bank

7: Silinski Explains

8: Murder

9: Hyatt

10: Sir George Dines

11: The Dancing Girl

12: "Mary Brown"

13: Deportation

14: When the Market Rose

15: In the "Journal" Office

16: Silinski Is Interviewed

17: The Man From the Eiffel Tower

18: The Affair of the "Castilia"

19: The Book

29: At the Admiralty

21: Silinski Strikes

22: The Convict from Ceutra

23: The House on the Hill

24: The Nine Bears

25: T.B. Smith Reports

26: The Lady Who Lost £200

27: In the Record Office

28: The Lost Warship

29: Silinski Understands

30: What the Sailor Said

31: The "Maria Braganza"

32: A Matter of Insurance

33: The "Mad Warship"

34:. In Tangier

35: Silinski Leaves Hurriedly

36: At "Lolo"

37: The Last of the Nine

______________________

1: Eclipse

MEN who think in millions usually pay in installments, but this was not the case with Silinski, who had a mind for small things, and between whiles, when mighty financial schemes were not occupying the screen, had time to work out his landlady's bill and detect the altogether fallacious addition of—

3 pesetas 25 centimos

4 pesetas 50 centimos

8 pesetas 75 centimos

He might, indeed, have hailed from Andalusia as did the Señora with her thrifty additions and her buxom red and white and black beauty, for he counted his pennies carefully and never received a duoro without testing it with his teeth.

He was a tall man with a stoop, and dressed invariably in black, which is the colour of Spain. Seeing him, on windy days, when bleak, icy air-streams poured down from the circling Sierras, and made life in Madrid insupportable, you might have marked him down as a Spaniard. His black felt hat and his velvet-lined cappa with its high collar would show him to be such from a distance, whilst nearer at hand, his long, melancholy face, with a thin nose that drooped over a trim black moustache slightly upturned, would confirm the distant impression. He spoke Spanish fluently, and affected a blazing diamond ring—such as a well-to-do Spaniard would delight in.

Silinski was, in fact, a Pole, and had been for many years a patriot, finding the calling lucrative.

Of all the bad men of whose history I have knowledge, or whose acquaintance I have made, none more than Silinski looked the part.

He was the transpontine villain to the life, and is the only instance I can recall of such a creature. He was in appearance so clever, so cunning, so snake-like, suave, and well-mannered, that men, and not a few women, trusted him from sheer perversity, reasoning, no doubt, that no man who looked so utterly untrustworthy could be anything but good at bottom. Reflecting on the bad men I have known, I enter into the spirit of the reasoning. Jan Muller was benevolent of face, with a kindly eye that twinkled behind gold-rimmed spectacles—yet Muller's record is known, and for the five murders that were brought home to him, a score were undiscovered. Bawker had the face of a clown, a weak, good-natured clown, with his loose lip and the puckered eyes of a lover of good living—Bawker was a cold-hearted murderer. Agma Cymon—I doubt if that was his real name—was a cold severe, just man, infinitely precise and methodical; a mean man who would fight over a penny, and who invariably had his clothing patched, and his shoes re-soled, yet Cymon's defalcations amounted to £127,000, and the bulk of the money went to the upkeep of an establishment over which the beautiful Madame Carron-Setter presided.

Silinski looked what he was, yet people did not shake their heads over him. Either they received him in their homes, and some, more intimately acquainted, joked with him on his Mephistophelian ensemble.

Silinski came to Burgos, from Madrid, by an excursion train that travelled all night, yet he was the trimmest and most alert of the crowd which thronged the Callo do Vitoria, a crowd made up of peasants, tourists, and soldiers.

He made slow progress, for the crowd grew thicker in the vicinity of the Casa del Cordon, where the loyal country-folk waited patiently for a glimpse of their King.

Silinski stood for a little while looking up at the expressionless windows of the Casa, innocent of curtain, but strangely clean. He speculated on the value of life—of royal life.

"If I were to kill the King," he mused, "Europe would dissolve into one big shudder. If, being dead, I came forward offering to restore him to life for fifty million francs the money would be instantly forthcoming on the proof of my ability. Yet were I to go now to the King's minister saying—'It is easy for me to kill the King, but if you will give me the money you would spend on his obsequies. I will stay my hand,' I should be kicked out, arrested, and possibly confined as a lunatic."

He nodded his head slowly, and as he turned away he took a little notebook from his pocket, and inscribed—"The greatest of miracles is self- restraint." Then he rolled a cigarette and walked slowly back to the Cafe Suiso in the Espollon.

A clean-shaven priest, with a thin, intellectual face, was stirring his coffee at one of the tables, and since this was the least occupied Silinski made for it. He raised his hat to the priest and sat down.

"I apologize for intruding myself, father," he said, "but the other tables—"

The priest smiled and raised a protesting hand.

"The table is at your disposition, my son," he said.

He was about the same age as Silinski, but he spoke with the assurance of years. Silinski noted that the priest's voice was modulated, his accent refined, his presence that of a gentleman.

"A Jesuit," thought Silinski, and regarded him with politely veiled curiosity. Jesuits had a fascination for him. They were clever, and they were good; but principally they were a mysterious force that rode triumphant over the prejudice of the world and the hatred in the Church.

"If I were not an adventurer," he said aloud, and with that air of simplicity which ever proved to be his most valuable asset, "I should be a Jesuit."

The priest smiled again, looking at Silinski with calm interest.

"My son," he said, "if I were not a Jesuit priest, I should be suspicious of your well-simulated frankness."

Here would have come a deadlock to a man of lesser parts than Silinski, but he was a very adaptable man. None the less, he was surprised into a laugh which showed his white teeth.

"In Spain," he said, "no gambit to conversation is known. I might have spoken of the weather, of the crowd, of the King—I chose to voice my faults."

The priest shook his head, still smiling.

"It is of no importance," he said quietly, "you are a Pole, of course?"

Silinski stared at him blankly. These Jesuits—strange stories had been told about them. A body with a secret organization, spread over the world—it had been said that they were hand-in-hand with the police.

"I knew you were a Pole; I lived for some time in Poland. Besides, you are only Spanish to your feet," the Jesuit looked down at Silinski's boots, "they are not Spanish; they are too short and too heavy."

Silinski laughed again. After all, this was a confirmation of his views of Jesuits.

"You, my father," he accused in his turn, "are a teacher; a professor at the college in Madrid; a professor of languages," he stopped and looked up to the awning that spread above him, seeking inspiration. "A professor of Greek," he said slowly.

"Arabic," corrected the other, "but that deduction isn't clever, because the Jesuits at Madrid are all engaged in scholastic work."

"But I knew you came from Madrid," smiled Silinski.

"Because we both came by the same train," said the calm priest, "and for the same purpose."

Silinski's eyes narrowed.

"For what purpose, father?" he asked.

"To witness the eclipse," said the priest.

A few minutes later, Silinski watched the black-robed figure with the broad-rimmed hat disappearing in the crowd with a little feeling of irritation.

He had not come to Burgos to witness the eclipse of the sun, but because he knew that the phenomenon would attract to the ancient stronghold of the Cid many notabilities. Notabilities were usually rich men, and these Silinski was anxious to meet. A Spanish gentleman, who could speak fluently French, English, German, and Italian, might, if he played his cards well, secure introductions at such a time as this, which ordinarily would be out of his reach. The guarded circles of Paris and London, through which the unknown could not hope to penetrate, would be assailable here.

A stately Spanish grandee (which was Silinski's role) might call on my lord in Berkeley Square, and receive no happier welcome than the suspicious scrutiny of an under footman. His ability to speak English would not serve him in a city where 6,000,000 of people spoke it indifferently well.

Silinski had come to Burgos as another man might go to a horse fair, in the hope of picking up a bargain; only, in the case of the Pole, it was a human bargain he desired, a profitable investment which he could secure for a hundred pesetas—for that was the exact amount of capital he at the moment controlled.

So with Silinski in Burgos, with crowds hurrying to the hill above the cathedral to witness the eclipse, and with no other actor in this strange drama upon the stage, the story of the Nine Bears begins.

Silinski scrawled a platitude in his notebook—had it been an epigram I would have recorded it—drank the remainder of his cafe au lait, signed to the waiter and paid him the exact amount due. Leaving the outraged servant speechless, he stepped into the stream and was swept up the hill to where a number of English people were gathered, with one eye upon their watches and another upon the livid shadow that lay upon the western sky.

Silinski found a place on the slope of the hill tolerably clear of sightseers, and spread a handkerchief carefully on the bare baked earth and sat down. He had invested a penny in a strip of smoked glass, and through this he peered critically at the sun. The hour of contact was at hand, and he could see the thin rim of the obstruction cover the edge of the glaring ball.

He had all the clever man's respect for the astuteness of the scientist, and as he waited he wondered by what method astronomers were able to so accurately fortell to the minute, to the second, nay to the thousandth part of a second, the time of eclipse. Perhaps—

"Say, this place will do, it's not so crowded."

Silinski looked up at the newcomers.

One was short and stout and breathed stertor-ously, having recently climbed the hill, the other, the speaker, was tall, well-groomed and unmistakably an American, with his rimless glasses and his square-toed boots.

"Phew!" wheezed the fat man. "Don't know which was worse, the climb or the crowd." He tapped his inside pocket apprehensively. "Hate crowds," he grumbled, "lose things."

"Have you lost anything?" asked the other. The fat man shook his head, but felt his pocket again. Silinski saw this out of the corner of his eye—inside breast pocket on the left, he noted.

"Baggin," said the fat man suddenly, "I've a feelin' that we oughtn't to have come here."

"You make me tired," said the American wearily.

"We oughtn't to be seen together," persisted the other; "all sorts of people are here, eh? Fellers I know slightly, chaps in the City, eh? They'll smell a rat."

He was querulous and worrying, and had a trick of asking for corroboration where none was likely to be offered.

"You're a fool," said the other.

There was a long pause, and Silinski knew that the American was making dumb show signals of warning. They were nodding at him, he felt sure, so he raised his hat and asked politely:

"At what hour is the eclipse?"

"No savvy," said the fat man, "no hablo es-pagnol."

Silinski shrugged his shoulders, and turned again to the contemplation of the plain below.

"He doesn't speak English," said the fat man, "none of these beggars do."

The American made no reply, but after a silence of a few minutes, he said quietly and in English:

"Look at that balloon."

But Silinski was too experienced a warrior to be trapped by a simple trick like that, and continued his solid regard of the landscape; besides, he had seen the balloons parked on the outskirts of the town, and knew that intrepid scientists would make the ascent to gather data.

He took another look at the sun. The disc was half-way across its surface, and the west was grey and blue, and the little clouds that flecked the sky were iridescent. Crowds still poured up the hill, and the slope was now covered with people. He had to stand up, and in doing so he found himself side by side with the fat man.

A strange light was coming to the world; there were triple shadows on the ground, and the stout man, whose name was Meyers, shifted uneasily.

"Don't like this, Baggin," he said fretfully; "it's hateful—never did like these wonders of the sky, they make me nervous—am frightened, Baggin, eh? It's awful, it's damned awful. Look out there, out west behind you, eh? It's black, black—it's like the end of the world!"

"Cut it out!" said his unimaginative companion.

Then of a sudden the black shadow in the west leaped across the sky, and the world went grey black. Where the sun had been was a hoop of fire, a bubbling, boiling circle of golden light, and the circling horizon was a dado of bright yellow. It was as though the sun had set at its zenith, and the sunset glows were shown, east, west, north, and south.

"My God! My God!" the fat man shook in his terror; "it's horrible, horrible."

He covered his face with his hands, oblivious to everything, save a gripping fear of the unknown that clawed at his heart.

He was blind and deaf to the hustling, murmuring crowd about him; only he knew he stood in the darkness at high noon, and that something was happening he could not compress within the limits of his understanding.

Three minutes the eclipse lasted, then, as suddenly as it began, it ended.

A blazing, blinding wave of light flooded the world, and the stars that had studded the sky went out.

"Yes—yes, I know I'm a fool." His face was bathed in perspiration, although with the darkness had come the chill of death. "It's—it's my temperament, eh? But never again! It's an experience."

He shook his head, as his trembling legs carried him down the hillside; then he tapped his pocket mechanically and stopped dead.

"Gone!" he gasped, and dived into his pocket. "Gone! by hell!" he roared. "Fifty thousand francs—gone—I've been robbed, Baggin—"

"You must expect that sort of thing in a crowd." said the philosophical American.

Silinski went into the cathedral to count the money—it was very quiet in the cathedral.

2: Silinski Has a Plan

SILINSKI had a sister who was beautiful. She enjoyed a vogue in Madrid as Foudonitya, a great dancer. She went her own way, having no reason for showing respect for her brother, or regard for his authority. This did not greatly exercise Silinski. But her way—so easy a way!—led to outrageous unconventionalities, and there were certain happenings which need not be particularized. She was solemnly excommunicated by the Archbishop of Toledo, and the evening newspapers published her photograph.

Silinski was annoyed.

"Child," he had said gravely to her, "you did wrong to come into conflict with the Church."

"It will be a good advertisement," she said.

Silinski shook his head, and said nothing.

That night Foudonitya was hissed off the stage of the Casino, and came to her brother, not weeping or storming, but philosophically alarmed.

"What am I to do?" she asked.

"Go away into the country and perform good works; be kind to the poor, hire a duenna, and make the acquaintance of the local correspondent of the Heraldo de Madrid."

"It will cost money," said the practical Catherine—this was her name.

"You can do nothing without money," said Silinski, and would have entered the saying in his notebook, but for the fact that it sounded trite.

So Catherine went into the country, and from time to time there appeared notes of her charity in the Madrid papers. She was still in the country when the ban of excommunication was withdrawn and she did penance at Cordova.

Silinski was not greatly surprised to see her dining at the Hotel de Paris at Burgos, on the night of the eclipse, but her hosts—they could not be her guests, for Catherine was one of the frugal sort—gave him occasion for thought. He stood in the doorway watching them. He had been looking for an empty table when he saw Catherine, and after a first glance he would have turned and departed, waiting until his sister was disengaged, but the fat man saw him.

"Hi!" he bellowed, "there he is—stop him, somebody!"

Silinski required no stopping; rather he came forward with a smile, offering his hand to the beautiful girl.

"That was the fellow who was standing near me when I lost the money," fumed the fat man, and looked helplessly round for a policeman.

There was a scraping of chairs, a confusion of voices; people rose from their seats craning their necks in an endeavour to secure a better view of what was happening, in the midst of which Mr. Meyers found himself pulled to his chair.

"Keep quiet—you," hissed Baggin's voice in his ear; "you fool, you're getting exactly a million dollars' worth of the wrong kind of publicity—he knows the girl." He leaned across the table and smiled crookedly at Silinski. "Sit down, won't you? My friend thinks he knows you—introduce us, Señora."

The commotion died down as it had begun, occasional curious glances being thrown at the strange quartette.

"Your brother?" Baggin looked keenly at the bowing stranger. "Well, we've met him before, and my friend entertained rather unjust suspicions—but they were preposterous, of course."

Silinski bowed again with a grave and patient smile.

"He didn't understand English on the hill, eh?"

Meyers choked as his suspicions found fresh food. "Don't like it Baggin, don't like it, I tell you!" He had a trick of dropping pronouns, which gave his speech an extraordinary rapidity of utterance.

"We had the pleasure of meeting your sister in Eonda a few weeks ago," Baggin went on smoothly, and Silinski nodded. He did not ask by what means this prosperous-looking American had secured an introduction in this land of punctilio. On Catherine's hand blazed a ring he had not remembered seeing before. "As we are leaving Spain tomorrow, we offered her a parting feast—"

He was feeling his way with Silinski, not quite sure of his ground. Silinski might be the outraged relative, the proud hidalgo, quickly and easily affronted, terrible in his vengeance. The girl needed some explaining away.

As for Silinski, did Baggin but know, the girl had explained her presence when she laid her hand on the white table-cloth and the fires of her ring leaped and fell in the gas-light.

"Señor," said Silinski benevolently, "I am gratified beyond measure with your courtesy. We Bohemians, we artists, ask nor offer excuse for our departures from the convention. My little one"—he patted Catherine's white hand—"makes friends quickly, but"—here he shrugged his shoulders and turned a pained face to the wheezing Mr. Meyers—"some observations have been made which reflect upon my honour."

"No offence," growled Meyers sulkily.

"Pardon," Silinski raised his hand, dignity and respect in every pose, "pardon, Señor, I could not fail to comprehend your accusation. I stood by your side on the hill, so absorbed, so rapt in the glories of the phenomena, that I could not bring my elated mind to the level of understanding." He resolved to remember this phrase. "I understood nothing, heard nothing, saw nothing, but the astral splendour—"

"No offence, no offence," grumbled the fat man, "didn't think before I spoke; worried, worried, worried!" He waggled his fat hand to and fro as though illustrating the process of perturbation.

"As to that," said Silinski, with a magnificent sweep of hand, "we agree to forget; but you lost money—"

"Lost money!" the fat man glared, "lost more than money, important documents, a precioso—precious, savvy—letter from a feller in the city, no possible value except to owner, see?"

"Let us go on with our dinner," said Baggin roughly; "you talk too much, Louis."

"Letters have been lost, seemingly, irredeemably lost," persisted Silinski, who was not at all anxious to change the subject, "yet, by such agencies as I have at present in my mind, have been restored to their grateful and generous owners."

"Detectives, eh?" Meyers' glare was now ferocious. "Spying, pryin', lyin' detectives? No! by—"

Baggin looked across at the girl in patient despair.

"I was not thinking of detectives—by the way, Burgos seems filled with these gentlemen," Silinski went on. "I was thinking of a genius who makes this country his home. His name"—Silinski's voice was emphatic as he created from his mind the wonderful investigator—"his name is Señor don Sylvester de Gracia, and he is a personal friend of mine."

"Oh! let the thing go," interrupted Baggin impatiently. "You've lost it, and there's an end to it; the thief will be satisfied with the money and tear the letter up."

"Unless," mused Silinski, "the thief is arrested by the police, and the letter is found upon him. Then the authorities might send for Señor T.B. Smith—eh?"

Meyers' face went ashen, and his thick lips began to quiver like a child on the point of crying.

"Smith? T.B. Smith? Commissioner, Scotland Yard! Not here, eh? Damn it, he's not here!"

"I passed him in the Plaza Mayos less than an hour ago; a gentleman very easily amused."

"Smith!" Meyers' shaking hand poured out a glass of amber wine. "Bah! mistaken!"

"I know him slightly," said Silinski modestly (it was T.B. Smith who had marked him for deportation under the Undesirable Aliens Act); "I never forget a face."

The fat man pushed back his chair, wiping his big mouth clumsily with a serviette.

"Then it's up," he said. "He's here for something; my name's Mud in the city—"

"Be quiet!" Baggin turned with a snarl upon his companion. "Look here," he said, facing Silinski, "my friend is not quite himself—I'll take him up to my room for a minute or so: will you wait here? You might be of service to us."

Without waiting for an answer the two men left the room, Baggin with one hand clenched on the fat man's arm.

When they had gone Silinski turned to his sister.

"I hope you haven't scared them," she said in German.

"I think not," said her amiable relative, and the two exchanged confidences.

"What have they done?" she asked.

"Nothing—as yet," he said diplomatically.

"You have this letter?" she asked, but Silinski shook his head.

"If I had," he said, "I could tell you all you want to know. Unfortunately I am in the dark."

"And the money?"

"I know no more about the money than you," he replied, with charming frankness. "Who are they?"

She laughed, showing two straight, white rows of teeth, and there was genuine amusement in her big grey eyes. "You have the money, of course, and the letter—you must tell me, Gregory. I must know where I am with them; it is due to me."

"As to the money," said Silinski, without shame, "it is some fifty thousand francs; one might live for a year in luxury upon fifty thousand francs. As for the letter—why, that is an annuity forever."

He leaned over the table, and as he looked his eyes were lowered to the cloth, like a man ransacking his memory for elusive facts.

"These men are part of an epidemic—a wave of financial instability is rushing across the world—no, I will put it inimitably: There are props of rotten finance; sometimes one pole snaps and the structure trembles, sometimes two snap and the structure lurches, but does not fall, for there is strength in union, and it is more difficult to break a bundle of worm-eaten sticks than one honest stave. But suppose all the props are withdrawn at once—what happens? Ph-tt! And suppose the weaker props say—' The big fellow is going—it is time for us to move'?"

Catherine listened patiently.

"I would rather you spoke less like a priest, in parables," she said.

"Naturally," said Silinski, with an easy inclination of his head, as though this were the very comment he expected, "yet I must deal in parables. Amongst your accomplishments, do you speak English?"

"A little." Catherine shrugged her shoulders carelessly. "I can say 'my dear' and 'I like you very much'."

"Which hardly fulfils all commercial requirements," said Silinski thoughtfully. "I will translate to you the interesting letter, which may be condensed into one comprehensive sentence towards the end—'When you are ready say "jump"'—"

Here Baggin appeared in the doorway, and beckoned to the polite Silinski, and that worthy made his way through the crowded room.

"Can you get that letter?" asked Baggin, without any preliminary, "or were you only joshing?"

"I can not only get the letter, but I have the letter," said the other calmly, and Baggin's lids narrowed. "Further, your plans are very foolish," the Pole went on smoothly, "because you have no plans. Spain will not hold nine defaulting bucket-shop keepers—that is the idiom, is it not?—unless your retirement is organized with considerably more skill than you have up to this moment displayed."

The American said nothing.

"I have a plan, a great plan," said Silinski, and he drew himself erect in the pride of his authorship; "but you must take me into its working."

"You are a damned villain," said Baggin, "a blackmailer!"

Silinski's brows darkened.

"Villain, yes," he said; "blackmailer, no—I am a genius—that is all."

3: Some Disappearances

IN the month of March, 1904, a notice was posted on the doors of the London, Manhattan and Jersey Syndicate, in Moorgate Street. It was brief, but it was to the point—

"Owing to the disappearance of Mr. George T. Baggin, the L.M. and J. Syndicate has suspended operations."

With Mr. Baggin had disappeared the sum of £247,000, an examination of the books of the firm revealed the fact that the London, Manhattan, and Jersey Syndicate was—Mr. Baggin; that its imposing title thinly disguised the operations of a bucket-shop, and the vanished bullion had been most systematically collected in gold and foreign notes.

Mr. Baggin had disappeared as though the earth had swallowed him up. He was traced to Liverpool; a ticket to New York had been purchased by a man answering to his description, and he had embarked on the Lucania. The liner called at Queenstown, and the night she left Mr. "Coleman" was missing. His clothing and trunks were found intact in his cabin, and a pathetic note addressed to the chief steward was pinned to his pillow. It said, in the extravagant language of remorse, that overwhelmed by the horror of his position, the writer had decided to leave this world for a better, and, he trusted, brighter life. It was signed "George T. Baggin." The ship was searched from stem to stern, but no trace of the unfortunate man could be discovered.

The evening newspapers flared forth with, "Tragic End of a Defaulting Banker," but Scotland Yard, ever sceptical, set on foot certain inquiries and learnt that a stranger had been seen in Queenstown after the ship sailed. A stranger who left for Dublin, and who doubled back to Heysham; who came, via Manchester, back to London again. In London he had vanished completely. Whether or not this was the redoubtable George T. Baggin, was a matter for conjecture.

T.B. Smith, of Scotland Yard, into whose hands the case was put, had no doubt at all. He believed that Baggin was alive. Two months after the disappearance, the firm of Woolfe, Meyers, Limited, crumbled into dust—for Louis Meyers himself failed to take his place one fine morning in the lavishly furnished board-room in King William Street. Meyers was a dealer in Premium Bonds. A stout man, scant of breath, loose-lipped, sparing pronouns. His ingenious method of trading may be summarized in a sentence. You paid your money and he took his choice. "There can be no doubt at all," said the Daily Megaphone, in commenting on his disappearance, "that this wretched man, face to face with exposure which was inevitable, has taken the supreme and desperate step of suicide. His overcoat, in which was a letter to the coroner, was found on one of the seats of the Thames Embankment..."

Yet Scotland Yard took no trouble to find the body. Instead, it sent its most experienced detectives to watch the seaports. T.B. Smith's instructions to his watchful subordinates were marked with sardonic levity.

"You will recognize the body of the late Louis Meyers," he wrote, "from the fact that it will be smoking a big cigar and carrying a portmanteau containing £150,000's worth of French and German notes; it speaks Engish with a slight lisp."

Most artistic of all was the passing of Lucas Damant, the Company Promoter. Damant's defalcations were the heaviest, for his opportunities were greater. He dealt in millions and stole in millions. Taking his summer holidays in Switzerland, Mr. Damant foolishly essayed the ascent of the Matterhorn without a guide. His alpenstock was picked up at the edge of a deep crevasse, and (I again quote the Megaphone) "yet another Alpine disaster was added to the alarming list of mountaineering tragedies." What time four expert guides were endeavouring to extricate the lost man from a bottomless pit, sixteen chartered accountants were engaged in extracting from the chaos of his documentary remains the true position of Mr. Damant's affairs, but the sixteen accountants, had they been sixteen hundred, and the space of time occupied in their investigations a thousand years, would never have been able to balance the Company Promoter's estate to the satisfaction of all concerned, for between debit and credit yawned an unfathomable chasm that close on a million pounds could not have spanned. In the course of time a fickle public forgot the sensational disappearance of these men; in course of time their victims died or sought admission to the workhouse. There were spasmodic discussions that arose in smoke-rooms and tap-rooms, and the question as to whether they were dead or whether they had merely bolted, was hotly debated, but it may be truthfully said that they were forgotten; but not by Scotland Yard, which neither forgets nor forgives.

The Official Memory sits in a big office that overlooks the Thames Embankment. It is embodied in a man who checks, day by day, hour by hour, and minute by minute, the dark happenings of the world. He is an inconsiderable person, as personalities go, for he enters no witness-box to testify against a pallid prisoner. He grants no interviews to curious newspaper reporters, he appears in no magazine as a picturesque detector of crime, but silently, earnestly, and remorselessly, he marks certain little square cards, makes grim entries in strange ledgers, consults maps, and pores over foreign newspaper reports. Sometimes he prepares a dossier, as a cheap-jack makes up his prize packet, with a paper from this cabinet, a photograph from that drawer, a newspaper cutting, a docketed deposition with the sprawling signature of a dying man, a finger-print card—and all these he places in a large envelope, and addresses it in a clerkly hand to Chief Inspector So-and-So, or to the " Director of Public Prosecutions." When the case is over and a dazed man sits in a cell at Wormwood Scrubbs pondering his sentence, or, as it sometimes happens, when convict masons are at work carving initials over a grave in a prison yard, the envelope comes back to the man in the office, and he sorts the contents jealously. It is nothing to him, the sum of misery they have cast, or the odour of death that permeates them. He receives them unemotionally, distributes the contents to their cabinets, pigeonholes, guard-books, and drawers, and proceeds to make up yet another dossier.

All things come to him; crime in all its aspects is veritably his stock-in-trade.

When George Baggin disappeared in 1904, his simple arrangement of indexing showed the connection between the passing of Lucas Damant six months later, and the obliteration of Meyers between these times. The Official Memory knew, too, what the public had no knowledge of—namely, that there had been half a dozen minor, but no less mysterious, sightings in the space of two years.

Their stories, briefly and pithily told, were inscribed on cards in the silent man's cabinet. Underneath was the significant word, "Incomplete." They were stories to be continued; some other hand than his might take up the tale at a future time, and subscribe "Finis" to their grim chapters. He was satisfied to carry the story forward as far as his information allowed him.