The Hangman's Knot E-Book

Arthur Gask

• Herausgeber: Librorium Editions
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Gilbert Larose is again called from retirement to solve a mystery—if anything, a mystery more baffling than those which have made his name in the past. Six murders in seven weeks and Scotland Yard is helpless. The crimes give no clue—not even a similarity of method to connect them. Just the whine of a bullet, the stab of a knife or the crash of a bludgeon, and the murderer has slunk back into the blackness of the night. Six times in seven weeks a coroner's jury returns the verdict “Murder by some person or persons unknown.”

Leseprobe

The Hangman's Knot

By

Arthur Gask

(1936)

© 2022 Librorium Editions

ISBN : 9782383834076

Contents

Chapter I.—“Sowing the Wind.”

Chapter II.—“The Drums of War.”

Chapter III.—Larose Upon the Trail.

Chapter IV.—Ghosts of the Dead.

Chapter V.—Larose Hears the Voice.

Chapter VI.—The Secrets of the River.

Chapter VII.—The Workers in the Night.

Chapter VIII.—“The Terror by Day.”

Chapter IX.—The Trail of Blood.

Chapter X.—“The Burglary at Rostrellor Court.”

Chapter XI.—“In the Shadow of the Scaffold.”

Chapter XII.—The Rejuvenation of Ah Chung.

Chapter XIII.—“The Ways of Death.”

Chapter XIV.—Larose Baits His Trap.

Chapter XV.—The Battle of the Giants.

Chapter XVI.—The Battle Continued.

Chapter XVII.—The Hangman's Knot.

Chapter I.—“Sowing the Wind.”

Man is always an animal, and civilisation, culture, and the conventions of society are but the mask that covers over the face of the beast. Sometimes the mask is lifted and then we gaze upon expressions more terrible than those of any creature of the wild, because of the resentment of the beast at the restraints that have been imposed upon him.

* * *

Ah Chung was a marine store dealer on Limehouse Causeway, and from the outward appearance of his shop it was no different from any others of its kind by the river side. In the big shed, however, at the far end of the backyard, happenings occurred that were unknown except to a very few, and which would have been of great interest to the police, if by any chance they had come to their knowledge.

The shed was roomy and most substantially built. It had double doors, double windows, and was completely sound-proof.

The marine store, notwithstanding its rather small size, did a good trade, and there were always customers passing in and out. Ah Chung had, however, several other sources of income, and indeed was quite well-to-do. Although people were not aware of the fact, he owned the houses on either side of the one he lived in, and also the barber's shop that abutted on to his yard at the back, and opened into Rent Street. There were hidden means of communication between all the four houses.

The houses adjoining Ah Chung's shop were managed by relations of Ah Chung. One was a lodging-house, and the other a bird and live-stock shop. In this latter, in addition to parrots, canaries, ducks, and even the humble fowl, you could purchase animals drawn from all parts of the world. Monkeys were always obtainable and sometimes wallabies, and occasionally, even a mongoose. There were cats of all varieties in cages, and a number of dogs, the latter, however, were usually of large size, and evidently intended for watch-dogs, rather than for pets.

The tenant of the barber's shop was a Swiss, named Voisin, and like the majority of his country-men he was taciturn and short of speech. He said little as he cut hair and shaved, but nevertheless took good stock of all his customers as they came in, as if instead of being a barber, he were a medical man and studying all their cases. He had served a term of imprisonment in his own country and in this, the country of his adoption, he had also reason for fearing the police. Occasionally he used to visit Ah Chung late at night, and in the intervals of discussing business, endeavour to make himself agreeable to the latter's two young and pretty wives. The girls, however, spoke no French or German and little English, being both recent importations, and they only giggled at his clumsy advances.

In a friendly way, Ah Chung was well-known to the police, and, indeed, was held by them in some esteem. He was marked as straight at headquarters, for he had many times been of service to the authorities in putting them upon the tracks of dealers in illicit drugs. He was never, however, seen to approach any police station, but from time to time a neatly typed letter would arrive at the station in Limehouse, with a dot and two dashes instead of a signature, and it would be known from whom it came. It would give certain information, and that information would invariably prove to be correct. Ah Chung was paid for these services, and he expected to be, too, for it was at all times, he averred, a risk to be having dealings with the police. He was most businesslike in all his transactions, and quick in his decisions always knew his own mind.

One day an enterprising and energetic plain-clothes man, McCarthy by name, came into the shop, and with the pretence of inspecting a coil of rope, put some questions to Ah Chung about the barber, Voisin.

“I'm getting suspicious,” he whispered, “for I've noticed that some nights he gets a lot of callers after his place is shut. Do you know anything about him?”

Ah Chung's face was as expressionless as that of the Sphinx. “I have never seen him,” he lied softly. He spoke perfect English. “I know nothing.”

The plain-clothes man laughed. “Well, you be careful,” he said, “and don't start sticking a knife into me, if you catch me one night in your back-yard. I may climb up on to his roof that way and take a peep through the sky-light.”

Two nights later McCarthy did not return home, and later it was believed he had fallen into the river and got drowned, although his body was never recovered. Ah Chung heard of his disappearance, but made no comment. He had just been examining a police whistle under a powerful magnifying-glass to see if there were any distinguishing marks upon it, and finding there were none, had polished it up and put it into stock. He never believed in wasting anything.

Upon certain nights gatherings were held in the big shed and then for an unknown person to enter, it was many times more difficult than to obtain an invitation for the Royal Enclosure at Ascot. The visitors arrived through any of the four houses, and they nearly always came alone, as single units. Their hats, too, were generally pressed low down upon their foreheads and the collars of their coats turned up. They seldom spoke to one another, and when they left they were escorted out, one by one.

Ah Chung catered for one of the by products of civilisation that can be found in any of the big cities of the world, the educated and cultured depraved, who with all outward appearance of refinement, yet so gloat upon the infliction of suffering that no forms of cruelty fail to be appreciated, or are too strong for their palates.

* * *

Ah Chung was not aware that there was a scientific name for this cult, and that it was one, well recognised, among the classes of degenerates. All he knew was that he supplied a want and was well paid for doing so. It had taken him many years to build up the connection, and he had made the circle most exclusive, a guinea being the invariable charge for admission.

The interior of the shed was arranged in the form of a miniature theatre, the stage, however, being in the middle. Well-cushioned seats, in three tiers, surrounded a large rat pit at the bottom. The pit was 12ft. square, and either inside, or upon a platform that could be speedily placed in position upon it, were staged the dramas that were so gratifying to Ah Chung's patrons. Save for the faint and diffused rays that escaped from a closely hooded arc-light that was swung directly over the pit, the whole place was always in darkness.

The events of the evening generally commenced with a score or so of large rats being introduced into the pit, to be followed by one or more excited and yelping fox-terriers, but in order that the enjoyment of the audience might be prolonged and the full flavour of everything obtained, the dogs were always muzzled. The muzzles, however, were provided at their ends with a short spike of a needle-like sharpness.

Then would follow an interesting ten minutes or quarter of an hour, until finally the unhappy rodents had been either bruised or spiked to death, not however, without having inflicted visible injuries upon the victorious terriers. Red shows up well upon a background of white.

Sometimes, instead of terriers, a cat would be introduced to deal with three or four rats, and then great enjoyment would be experienced by the playfulness with which she would pass from one rat to another, before giving them the final despatch.

Again, a muzzled cat, with her claws closely trimmed, would be put into the pit and two or three monkeys would provide entertainment by jumping upon her and plucking out handfuls of her fur.

Later, a platform would be thrown over the pit, and a huge cage placed in position, a fight between two large and savage dogs would be shown, or a series of cock-fights, or upon rare occasions an encounter between an ape and a dog.

Then the seats upon one side of the shed would be vacated and with Ah Chung's cinematograph coming into play, pictures smuggled into the country from all parts of the world would be thrown upon the screen. It but faintly suggests their nature to state that no censor upon earth would have passed them, either for public or private view, for apart from those of a wholly unmentionable kind, they always depicted incidents of horror or brutality.

And when everything was all over, Ah Chung, placid and respectful as a well-trained gentleman's servant, would stand by the door, and as he collected payment, whisper the date of the next meeting, and often add that he was expecting then to have something yet more interesting to show.

* * *

One night after one of these gatherings, when the chimes of midnight were just sounding, a well-dressed man alighted from a taxi-cab in Cavendish Square, and proceeded to walk briskly along until he came to a house at the junction of Wimpole and Queen Anne Streets. Taking a latch-key from his pocket, he was about to insert it in the door when he was accosted by another man, who came gliding up like a shadow from the area railings, where he had evidently been waiting, of set purpose.

“Professor Batcher, I believe,” said this second man, and receiving a cold nod in answer, he asked. “Can I speak to you for a few minutes?”

“Speak,” was the curt rejoinder, and the professor immediately slipped the hand that had been holding the latch-key into one of the side pockets of his overcoat.

“But I should like to have the few words with you inside your house,” said the other. He lowered his voice, and added, “I, too, was at Ah Chung's to-night.”

The professor gave an almost imperceptible start, but he replied quite steadily, “I don't understand. I don't know what you mean.”

“Oh, yes you do,” came the quick response, “and although I always wear dark glasses at Ah Chung's, you will recognise me at once. See,” the speaker snapped a little electric torch full on to his own face for a few seconds. “It was I,” he went on, “who asked you for a match to-night, just when that bulldog had got the Alsatian by the throat.”

A moment's silence followed upon the torch being extinguished, and then the professor asked sharply, “Well, what do you want?”

“I have a proposition to put before you,” replied the man with the torch. He shook his head quickly. “No, you needn't be afraid. It's not money I'm after, for I've plenty of that, and I'm not connected with the police. It's a comrade I am looking for, and I should never have dared to approach you, if I had not been certain that you were a suitable one.”

“How did you learn my name?” asked the professor, and there was nothing in the sternness of his tone to suggest that the explanation had in any way tended to inspire confidence in him.

“In the same way that I have learned everything else about you,” laughed the man softly, “by extended and patient inquiries.” He spoke quickly. “I have been interested in you for many months. Your name is not Batcher. It is Libbeus, Joseph Libbeus, and you are a doctor of medicine, a graduate of London University. You are——”

“No, no,” broke in the professor angrily, “you are quite mistaken. You have been wrongly informed.”

“You are 39 years of age,” went on the stranger, as if he had not heard the interruption, “and ten years ago came under the notice of the police, when a woman patient of yours died. You were sentenced to five years' penal servitude, and your name was removed from the Medical Register. Upon your release from prison you went to Shanghai, but three years ago you returned to this country, and set up here as an expert upon diet and slimming. Nearly all of your patients are women, and you are doing well, but without being aware of your real identity, the police have recently become suspicious that you are engaged upon the same work that got you into trouble before. They have set two traps for you within the past five weeks, but you escaped them both and——”

The professor made a gesture of impatience. “That'll do,” he exclaimed sharply. He took out his latch-key again and thrust it in the door. “Come in and we'll have that talk you want.” He paused a moment and then added menacingly. “But you be careful to play no tricks, for I warn you I am armed.”

“Yes,” remarked the stranger quietly, “you have a knuckle-duster in your pocket. I felt it when I was sitting next to you at Ah Chung's.”

* * *

The father of Miss Cynthia Cramm kept the Gibbet Inn, situated midway between the pretty little Sussex villages of Hartfield and Maresfield, upon the beautiful stretch of road running on the uplands through Ashdown Forest.

Miss Cramm had turned sixteen years of age, but she did not look fourteen. She was small and skinny, with an alert, quick, little face, and eyes as bright as a bird's, and what she did not know of life was of no interest or she would have learnt it.

Essentially a product of these modern times, she knew more than her grandmother did, and could have told that old lady things that would have caused her to uplift her hands in horror, and dim her horn-rimmed spectacles with tears.

She read every line of the two daily newspapers that were taken at the inn, including the advertisements, and was particularly interested in the divorce news. She held strong views upon certain burning social questions, and did not hesitate to express her disapproval that she had been followed into the world by five more little Cramms.

“We could not afford it,” she snapped decisively, “and in consequence father is not now able to give us the education that he should.”

She smoked when she could do so without her father seeing her, used powder and a lip-stick when she went out with her boy friends, and also she already boasted of preferences in the matter of cocktails. Her great ambition was to go on the films.

Romantically situated with beautiful views on all sides, the Gibbet Inn did a good trade, and Mrs. Cramm's Sunday luncheons were known far and wide. The house had become a favourite place of call for the motoring world, and quite apart from the food being always well-cooked and daintily served, the nomenclature itself of the inn was attractive, for people liked to tell their friends that they had 'lunched at the Gibbet.' The inn had prospered, and a commodious dining room had been built on. This room contained a long table running down the centre of the room and a much smaller one, placed just under the widow at the far end. On Sundays three smartly-attired maids attended to the wants of the visitors.

* * *

One certain Sunday morning then, in the last week of June, towards half-past twelve, when all was bustle and preparation for the midday meal, and Thomas Cramm was busy in the bar, Miss Cramm was ordered by her mother to iron the aprons for two of her little sisters, and she flatly refused to do anything of the kind. Not that the young lady had any objection to the ironing on Sabbatarian grounds. She had no scruples there, but she had been up late the night before at a party, and was feeling tired, and it happened, too, that at that moment when her services were required by her mother, she was busy watching from an upper window a handsome young couple who had just driven a very smart little two-seater into the yard and were now going lovingly over the bodywork with a duster. From the luggage strapped on the back Miss Cramm was of opinion that they were a honeymoon couple, and always romantically inclined, she was considering as to whether they had been married the previous day, and did not want to be disturbed in attempting to deduce from the glances they kept on giving to one another, whether she were right or not, in her conjecture.

So, when the order from her mother arrived by one of the maids she sent back a curt message that she should not comply with the request. Her mother was furious, for already twice that morning Cynthia had been impertinent, or in the vernacular, had given her parent 'lip,' so now the latter, very red in the face, left the pressing duties in the kitchen and came running upstairs to administer suitable chastisement.

But Cynthia heard her coming, and reluctantly tearing herself away from the window, escaped through another door, banging it to behind her in her mother's face.

“All right, you dreadful child,” shouted Mrs. Cramm stertorously. “I'll fetch your father at once.”

Now her father was the only person whom Cynthia really feared, for he was of quick temper and had a heavy hand. It was fresh in her memory, too, that not a week before, when following upon a very one-sided encounter with him, she had later sat down at the piano to play her favourite piece, 'The Lost Chord,' she had had to put an extra cushion upon the piano-stool to escape actual physical discomfort.

So when a couple of minutes or so later, Mr. Cramm came tearing upstairs to 'have a few words,' it is not surprising that Miss Cramm was nowhere to be found. Not only was she not visible in any of the upper rooms, but a hasty search of the ground floor revealed no sign of her presence there either, and so the landlord of the Gibbet Inn, with an ugly look upon his face, that undoubtedly presaged more physical discomfort for his daughter when he could lay hands upon her, returned fuming, into the bar.

There were twenty-seven luncheons served that day—the police were afterwards able to verify that. One party of six, two of four, five of two, and three parties who came alone. At least that was how the bills were paid, according to the very accurate bookkeeping of Mrs. Cramm, but the head-waitress who collected the money at the tables, later told a rather peculiar tale. She said that where one bill was seemingly paid for a party of four people lunching there together, it was actually discharged for the meals of four separate individuals, who came in singly, sat apart from one another at the long table, and had no conversation together until all the other lunchers had left the room. Then suddenly, in her momentary absence, they had all moved to the small table under the window, and a call being made for liqueurs and a bottle of the best port, they had at once started to talk amiably together, as if they were old friends.

She remembered the incident distinctly, because the one who had ordered the port asked that they should be left undisturbed for a little while, and the time extending for longer than an hour, it had hindered the clearing away and the setting of the table for the expected afternoon teas. It had been most inconvenient.

And the story of the waitress was quite correct, except in one particular, for after the four lunchers had moved over to the small table they had not started at once to talk amiably together as old friends. On the contrary, three of them had appeared to be very distrustful of one another, and if the waitress had been of a more observant nature she would have noted that it was only the fourth man who was smiling, and that the others looked very angry.

What really happened was this. The four men partook of their meal, quietly and unobtrusively and as if they had no interest except in the fare provided. The meal consisted of boiled cod and oyster sauce, roast chicken and roast duck, cherry tart, and a beautiful ripe Stilton cheese.

They had kept pace with the other lunchers until the sweet had been served, and then, all at once, they had begun to dawdle and eat very slowly, at the same time assuming thoughtful and lethargic airs. It seemed as if none of them were in any hurry and almost, as if of set purpose, they each one wanted to outstay everybody else.

But a stout couple were most unduly interested in the Stilton cheese, and returning many times to the attack, it was nearly half past two before these latter rose from their seats and the four men were the only occupants of the room.

Then the appearance of casual indifference upon the face of one of them passed instantly away, and his knife falling with a sharp click on to his plate, he made a motion with his arm embracing the other three, and remarked quietly, but very distinctly, “Gentlemen, the password is 'the rat-pit of Ah Chung,' and you are all three my guests.” His face expanded into a broad smile. “We are old friends.”

But there was certainly no appearance of friendliness upon the faces of the others, indeed annoyance almost to the point of positive anger seemed to possess them. They looked most suspiciously at one another, and then turned back to glare balefully at the man who had spoken.

The latter raised a big fat hand in protest. “No, no, don't be upset,” he said, reassuringly, and in a pleasant, cultured voice, “for at any rate no harm is done, and if you do not wish it, you can continue to remain unknown to one another, and part as perfect strangers in a few minutes.” He glanced in the direction of the door, and spoke very quickly. “I thought it best to bring you all together in this way, for I have made exactly the same proposition to each one of you, and if any of you so decide, you can withdraw in perfect safety from any association with me, and it can be then as if we had never met.”

He rose up from his chair. “But now, let us move over to that small table and we'll just talk things over for a little while. You can at least hear what I have to say.” He smiled. “For the moment you can call me 'Mr. X,' and you gentlemen”—he pointed at them, each in turn, “can be Messrs. A, B, and C.”

After a moment's hesitation, but without speaking a single word, the three men rose up, too, and followed him over to the table by the window. They were just seated when one of the maids returned into the room, and, as we have heard the order was then given for a bottle of port and liqueurs.

Once more by themselves, and the door closed again, the man who had taken charge of the proceedings leant forward over the table and regarded his companions with an amused smile. He was not by any means an unpleasant man to look upon, and the first impression he would have given anyone was of amiable and carefree good nature, of medium height and decidedly upon the stout side, he was of a dark and well-tanned complexion. His eyebrows were big and busy, and he sported a neatly trimmed black beard. His eyes were large and fearless, and it was only his lips that would have been displeasing to a reader of character, for they were full and sensual. However, in repose, he had the habit of keeping them pressed lightly together and in that way their defects were not so apparent to the casual observer. He was very short-necked, and he had fat hands, upon the finger of one of which he sported a diamond ring, with a stone of exquisite quality.

He started to renew the conversation at once. “I regret, gentlemen,” he said melodiously, and with the glib tongue of the practised speaker, “if any of you should regard it as a breach of confidence my having thus gathered you here together, when each one of you expected you would be the only one to be meeting me, but when you have heard my explanation and all I have to tell you, I am sure you will acquit me of any charge of trickery, and will as readily admit that I am exposing none of you to any risk by this meeting.”

He laughed slyly. “It may surprise you to learn that I have been occupied for the best part of two years in finding out all I could about you three, and it is only after long and patient inquiries, and the expenditure of considerable sums of money that I feel at last justified in risking my safety in your hands.” He sighed. “There should, indeed, have been a fourth guest with us to-day, but, unhappily, last week he passed away with great suddenness, in fact, to make no mystery of it,”——his eyes twinkled—“he was hanged at the Old Bailey.”

One of his audience, the one he had pointed to as Mr. B., a square-jawed man with heavy features and small, suspicious-looking eyes, here ejaculated hoarsely and as if involuntarily “Clive Belgian! You had approached him?”

“No,” replied Mr. X., smilingly, “but I was upon the point of doing so, when three months ago he was unfortunate enough to get apprehended after he had shot that caretaker in Hume Buildings. I had had my eye upon him for some time, for I was sure he would prove a most valuable addition to our party. He was very capable, absolutely unscrupulous, and without a grain of pity in him.” He laughed again. “You have had considerable dealings with him, have you not, Mr. B.?” Then as the man addressed apparently showed no intention of making any reply, he went on quickly. “But to return to the purpose for which we are assembled here.” He spoke most impressively. “Now, straightaway, you can take it for granted, you are all three quite secured against the treachery of one another, for you are all engaged in unlawful undertakings, and it would be dangerous to the last degree for any one of you to——”

“What about yourself?” broke in a third man sharply, an uncommon-looking man with a high forehead and good facial angle, but most unprepossessing appearance, because the bony construction of his face was so pronounced, it seemed to be stretching the livid skin that covered it, almost to breaking point. “What about yourself? We know nothing about you?”

Mr. X. smiled. “But you soon shall do, my friend,” he replied, “for when I proceed to chapter and verse about the law-breaking proclivities of you three, I shall be equally open regarding my own.” He went on. “Now within the last few weeks I have approached each of you in turn recalling to you, firstly, that you have each suffered at the hands of this so-called society, under whose laws we live—as a matter of fact only one of us here has not served a term of imprisonment, and that individual is not I—and, secondly, that you all should have vengeances to exact. Accordingly, I have suggested that you should join with me to mete out—not only to the particular people concerned, but to the community generally—the punishments that are undoubtedly deserved.” He looked from one to the other. “Now that is the sole line I have taken, is it not, vengeance upon our particular enemies, and, in a broad way, making the community suffer as we have suffered?”

A short silence followed, and he received a nod of decisive, if sullen, agreement from each one before he resumed. “Well, before I approached any of you, I made sure that your temperaments were such that you would be willing to exact your vengeances if you could, and also, would be wholly callous to any suffering that you inflicted.” He laughed softly again. “Ah Chung's entertainments were a good school in which to try you out.”

“Come to the point,” growled the man with the face of tightly-drawn skin. “We are not going to stop here for ever.”

“Patience, my friend,” retorted the stout man. “I am coming to it now.” He spoke most impressively. “The exact position then is this. We are none of us, by any means, poor men and I——am a very rich one. If all of you were paupers, I have yet ample means to finance the whole project.” He struck the table lightly with his hand. “So, all I want is comrades. Men of sufficient strength of character to help me carry out my vengeance, along with their own. Then we shall enjoy together the punishments we inflict.” He threw out his hands. “What pleasure is there in drinking alone, and how much greater enjoyment then will be——”

“But how are we to know you have the means you say you have?” asked the fourth man brusquely. “It may be that this is only a trap you are setting for us, and you may be only out for common blackmail. That diamond in your ring, even, may be spurious and——”

The stout man instantly plucked the ring from his finger and handed it across the table to Mr. B. “He'll tell you,” he laughed in great good humour, “for he is the biggest buyer of stolen gems in London, and the police have been looking for him for years.”

Mr. B. with no expression upon his face took the ring and examined it. “Worth £200,” he remarked laconically. He half smiled. “I should give you £30 cash if it came to me on the way of business.”

“And how could I have found out all about you that I have,” asked the stout man, “unless I had been able to spend, and spend freely.” He shook his fat forefinger playfully at the man who had questioned his financial stability. “Why, to find out what I have found out about you alone, has cost me more than £1000, for I had to send a private inquiry agent expressly over to Shanghai, and all the time I was having you watched, day by day, by other agents over here.” He looked round upon them all. “But I'll soon convince you on the score of what means I possess. Listen, I'll tell you a story—a story with a sequel to it.”

No one made any comment, and after a few moments he went on. “Now cast your minds back to 15 years ago when the Cosmopolitan Investment Company came into the boom. A new star in finance had appeared, Oscar Bascoigne, a man in the early thirties, and I am sure you will all remember him. Good! Well, he floated that company with a capital of £2,000,000 and attracted the investments of people all over the English-speaking world. He was a dear personal friend of mine, and when he crashed and was sent down for seven years for fraudulent company promoting, I was perhaps the only person who grieved for him. He served more than five years of his sentence and then was released upon ticket of leave. He——”

“Ought to have been a lifer,” broke in the man with the tightly drawn skin. “He deserved nothing less.”

The stout man ignored the interruption. “——he went over to Santiago and there, with some thousands of pounds that he had secreted before the crash came, made a huge fortune out of nitrates, more than £1,000,000. Then he died, leaving everything to me, with the injunction, however, that in return I should avenge the wrong that had been done him, for he had been convicted under the direction of a servile and unjust Judge, urged on by the lies and calumnies of the prosecution for the Crown. This last fellow handed out the usual flap-doodle that every one who had rushed in for the gamble were innocent and confiding creatures, and that Bascoigne had robbed the widows and the fatherless and brought ruin upon countless homes.” He thumped again upon the table. “Now do you understand my motives and believe that I have ample means?”

The man with the death-mask face smiled coldly. “Yes, I believe you,” he said, “for you are Bascoigne himself, I should not have recognised you, but I have heard you at the company's meetings and remember now that oily voice.” He spoke quite passionlessly. “Curse you! I lost £2000 that I could ill spare at the time, and you ruined my poor old mother when your company failed. You are a great scoundrel.”

The stout man was by no means abashed, instead, he laughed as if he were very amused. “And when you add to that,” he said, “the fact that in leaving England I broke my ticket-of-leave, and in consequence there is still a warrant out for my apprehension, you will appreciate how thoroughly I am one of you—an outcast from society, and the prey of the Law if it can lay its hands upon me.”

“But you are not being open with us, as you made out you were,” said the square-jawed man angrily. “This confession that you are Bascoigne has been forced upon you.”

“Not at all,” replied Bascoigne warmly. “I could have denied it, and our friend here had no proof. Besides, did I not commence my little story by telling you that it had a sequel? And if you had waited for that sequel you would have learnt at the end that if Bascoigne, the financier, had died”—he looked very grim—“yet as Mr. X. he has now risen from the dead to wreak vengeance upon his enemies.”

Then with a quick movement he thrust his hand into the pocket of his jacket and drew out a long packet, wrapped in brown paper. “And now for this last proof,” he said sharply, as he proceeded to draw off the wrapping. “Ten one-thousand pounds Government bonds-to-bearer. Exactly 49 numbers between each one of them, and I possess the lot, locked securely in my safe.” His smile was proud and arrogant. “Half a million pounds, gentlemen, and that by no means represents the whole of my possessions. So now will you throw in your fortunes with mine and obtain the revenges for which I know you crave?”

A long silence followed, and then the man with the bony face nodded. “Yes, I will,” he said. “My liver is cirrhosed, and I know I have not long to live. I should like to settle a few accounts before I go.”

“I'm willing, too,” said the square-jawed man savagely. “I'd swing happily if I could obtain all the revenge I want, first.”

“Agreed,” said the third man, quietly. “Life is humdrum, and it will be an adventure to punish the man who ruined me.”

“Yes, yes, as you say, life is humdrum,” exclaimed Bascoigne, excitedly, and speaking with intense passion, “and we will not stop only at the gratification of our private vengeances, but will wage relentless war upon the society that has hounded us down. We will bring a chilling fear into its smug and hypocritical heart, and from a hundred bloody deeds it shall learn that an avenger stalks the land. We will——” but overcome by the vehemence of his emotion, he paused to get his breath, and then before he could resume the boney-faced man broke in.

“A drug-taker, eh? No! well you look like one to me, anyhow!” He shrugged his shoulders. “I take chloral myself.” He laughed grimly. “Really, we shall be dangerous maniacs let loose among the community, if we are going to act as you suggest.”

Bascoigne pulled himself together, and his voice dropped into crisp and business-like tones. “But now,” he announced, “I'll make all the necessary introductions.”

Uneasy looks came at once into the faces of the other men, but he went on emphatically. “Yes, it is absolutely necessary that we should know all about one another, so that there may be perfect confidence between us all, and the full realisation that any treachery among us—and we all fall together.”

“Well, go on,” said the man who had just admitted he took chloral, testily, “and get it over, quick. You are not addressing the Cosmopolitan Investment Company now. You have been too verbose all along.”

Bascoigne bowed ironically. “Myself first, then gentlemen,” he said. “Once Convict Bascoigne, and now Sheldon Brown, Esq., of The Pines, Crowborough, and 25 Charles Street, Mayfair. A Justice of the Peace for the county of Sussex, and the well-known philanthropist who gave £50,000 to the London Hospital last year. Next,”—and he turned to the last speaker—“Sir Charles Carrion, Baronet, of 47 Harley Street, the one-time eminent surgeon with all England at his feet. Three years incarceration in a private lunatic asylum, however, has somewhat detracted from his professional popularity, and his practice may now be considered small.”

A look of rage came into the face of Sir Charles. “I was only certified by my rivals,” he snarled savagely, “and whatever I am now, I was perfectly sane then. It was a vile conspiracy hatched to get me out of the way. Hell! I'd join hands with the devil himself to get my revenge.”

Bascoigne smiled and went on. “But Sir Charles's activities are by no means confined to his practice in Harley Street, for he runs an unregistered vivisection laboratory in his commodious residence at Hampstead. He has been refused any sort of licence by the authorities, but nevertheless operates, and without anaesthetics, too. He has a private burial ground in the large garden surrounding his house, and if I am not very much mistaken,” here he pretended to cough apologetically, “bodies have been buried there that are not only those of dumb animals. Three months ago, he had some sort of disagreement with his butler, who was threatening to report the vivisections to the authorities, and the next day the butler disappeared. The man was supposed to have left the district, but I am of opinion that he never went far away and if a certain spot behind a big elm tree were dug over——”

“Nothing would be found,” broke in Sir Charles with a contemptuous smile. “The precautions I took were——”

“But the purchase of such a large quantity of chemicals would have to be explained,” interrupted Bascoigne sharply, “and you seem not to be aware that your butler had four gold crowns, and was wearing artificial teeth set upon a platinum plate.” He looked amused. “Now, none should know better than you that both gold and platinum are unaffected by nitric acid.”

Sir Charles Carrion scowled but made no comment, and Bascoigne continued. “Well, that finishes with Sir Charles for the moment, and from what I have just outlined, I think we others need have no fear that tales will ever be carried to quarters where they are not wanted. We are quite safe, I am sure.”

He pointed now to a small dark man, with a sallow oval face and a beard, trimmed and pointed, that suggested the artist. “And here is another medical man, a one-time Dr. Joseph Libbeus, a Hebrew of course, and an M.D., London.” He broke off as if an idea had struck him, and asked quickly. “Then you didn't recognise Sir Charles, Doctor. I was half expecting you would.”

“No,” was the quiet reply. “I have heard of him, of course, and Humanity will always be indebted to him for his 'Surgery of the Abdomen,' but I have never seen him before.” He inclined his head politely in the direction of Sir Charles. “He is a great man.”

The surgeon smiled coldly and Bascoigne continued. “Well, fifteen years ago, Dr. Libbeus was one of the most brilliant students who had ever qualified from St. Bartholomew's Hospital, and before he was nine and twenty he had become a recognised authority upon 'toxicology.'” He rubbed his hands as if very pleased. “His knowledge of poisons will be most useful to us.” He went on. “But a great calamity overtook him, for, in financial difficulties and tempted by the big fee of two hundred guineas, he performed a certain operation and the woman died. He might, however, have escaped all consequences of his action but for the hostility of a brother practitioner, and tried at the Old Bailey, he was sentenced to five years penal servitude, from which he emerged six years ago. He went to Shanghai, and obtained employment in a factory for the production of high explosives—here, again, he is the very man we want—but unhappily, strong suspicion arose in that city that he had administered poison to the husband of a lady with whom he was on friendly terms, and he was fortunate to be able to escape from the country before matters came to a head. As much altered in appearance as I am, because bearded, and an habitual opium addict, he——”

“That's neither here nor there,” broke in Dr. Libbeus angrily. “I take my opium pill just as you take your alcohol or your tobacco.” He made a sharp motion with his hand. “Keep off unnecessary personalities, please.”

“——he returned to England,” continued Bascoigne, as if he had not heard the interruption, “and, as Professor Batcher, now carries on a highly unlawful practice at 275 Queen Ann's Street. Two of his patients have died recently, but forging the name of a Dr. Anthony Harden of Kew, whom he has ascertained is at the present moment travelling abroad, he has had no difficulty in getting them interred in the customary manner.”

Dr. Libbeus was moistening his dry lips with his tongue and his face had gone an ashen grey, but Sir Charles Carrion looked highly amused.

“A most excellent joke!” he chuckled. “Most excellent! It happens I know Harden quite well, and his eyes would pop out in horror if he knew what had been certified over his name. He is a smug, sanctimonious man, and the acme of unctuous respectability.” He turned and patted Dr. Libbeus in a most friendly fashion upon the shoulder. “But see here, sir—next time you want a certificate of death, come straight to me and I'll give it you. Then you won't be running any risks. I'm not fussy and shall be quite prepared to certify to anything you want.”

Dr. Libbeus at once recovered his composure and the blood returned to his face. “Thank you very much indeed, Sir Charles,” he said warmly, “I shall be most grateful to you.”

Bascoigne rubbed his hands together again. “That's right,” he said gleefully. “I was certain we should all become good friends.” He turned to the fourth man, the one with the determined jaw. “Now for Mr. Edward Mason, a prosperous estate-agent of Mile End Road. His real name is Sabine Guildford, and he is, or was, a member of the legal profession, but in 1915 he speculated with funds entrusted to his care and an unsympathetic judge ordered him free board and lodging for five years at the expense of his Majesty. Of course, too, he was struck off the Rolls.”

“If they had given me three weeks' grace,” interrupted Guildford fiercely, “they would have got back every penny I took, for the investment righted itself. But the Law Society would have its pound of flesh.”

“Exactly,” agreed Bascoigne, “it was the Law Society that drove you into the paths you subsequently took.” He turned back to the others. “Well, at the expiration of his sentence, our friend proceeded to make his home in Mile End Road, and, with his profound knowledge of law, his enterprise, and his undoubted business ability, soon became a person of importance in the circle in which he now moves.”

Guildford began to stir uneasily in his chair here and Bascoigne went on. “He is a blackmailer, he finances the elite of the criminal classes, and his house is a hiding place for them when they are pursued. He is a receiver of stolen goods, he is engaged in the dope traffic, and he forges passports for entry into every country in the world. Also, when the occasion is propitious, he does not hesitate to embark upon criminal adventures of his own.” He laughed merrily. “That is so, Mr. Guildford, is it not?”

Guildford's face had assumed an ugly look and his beady eyes were blinking viciously. “Go on,” he growled, “you seem to know more about me than I know myself.”

Bascoigne beamed good humour and good nature. “But I have told you I have made it my business to find out everything about you all, and there is no exaggeration in anything I say.” He spoke banteringly. “At any rate you must admit that for 10 days prior to the burglary at Lord Farleigh's at Stoke d'Aberon last month, and the very violent death of his gardener in the grounds—you were occupying that little cottage you rent in Oxshott Woods, close by, and you cannot deny that you had been making mysterious excursions from there in the dead of night, upon three or four occasions just before the burglary occurred.” He pretended to look very grave. “So, the authorities if they are aware of it, might perhaps be inclined to think that you have been spying out the ground.”

Chapter II.—“The Drums of War.”

One Sunday afternoon towards the end of September, about three months after the events recorded in the last chapter, two men were seated in the crowded winter-garden of the Hotel Metropole at Brighton. One of them was a journalist, attached to the London 'Daily Cry,' and the other, a rubber planter, home on holiday from the Federated Malay States. The latter was reading a Sunday newspaper, and presently he threw it down.

“Well, really,” he remarked carelessly, “this dear old England of ours does not seem the law-abiding place it used to be, and certainly its police are not nearly as efficient as in days gone by.” His voice rose a little. “Why, here have I been home not a couple of months until next week, and yet I can recall at least four unsolved murders, and also a mysterious disappearance that looks darned like foul-play, too.” He held out the newspaper to his companion. “And here's another outrage, I see, reported this morning, some one shooting at Lord Cornwall's car yesterday at Barnstead, and a bullet going through the window. What the devil was that done for, I wonder?”

The journalist declined the proferred paper. “I've already seen it, old man,” he said. “It's interesting, but was possibly only an accident. Some one rabbiting, perhaps, on the common as the car went by, and maybe he didn't know what he had done.”

“And when that clergyman was shot at Surbiton,” remarked the planter sarcastically, “I suppose that was an accident, too! And when the old judge was killed at Eastbourne, and Lord Burkington at Harrogate—both accidents again!”

The journalist shook his head. “No, cold-blooded murders there,” he said instantly, “and very mysterious, too.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Still, among 50 million persons mysterious things are always happening, although, naturally, we don't always hear about them.”

“But has it struck you, Travers,” went on the planter, “that most of these johnnies who have struck trouble lately were at one time or other prominent in the particular circles in which they moved.”

The journalist laughed. “Of course it has,” he replied, “and that is why we remember about them. If Bill Bloggs had been killed in Whitechapel or Sam Stuckey at Mile End, matters might have been dismissed in two paragraphs and forgotten in two days, but the more prominent the person, naturally the more interested the public are when anything happens to him,”—he made a grimace—“and we newspaper men have to provide what they want. We cater for those interests.”

“Well, your police must be pretty rotten, anyhow,” said the planter, “to have made no discoveries at all.”

The journalist laughed again. “And how do you know they haven't made any discoveries?” he asked. He nodded. “You be here another month, my friend, and then note how many of those mysteries are in the way of being cleared up.”

* * *

A short silence followed, and the two friends interested themselves in regarding the company around them. It was the usual Sunday afternoon crowd of well-dressed men and beautifully-gowned women. People well known in society, business and professional men, people known in the art and literary worlds, owners of racehorses and sporting men, and a sprinkling of politicians.

“Well, and what do you think of them?” asked the journalist presently, turning back to his companion. “Notice any difference in the ten years you've been away?”

“No-o,” replied the rubber planter hesitatingly, “except that there are more women smoking now, and the sweet creatures are more made-up than ever.” He nodded appreciatively. “There are some lovely women here.”

“Yes, lovely,” agreed the journalist readily. He lowered his voice quickly. “Now, that girl opposite you is a perfect poem isn't she? Did you ever see more glorious eyes or a more beautiful profile? She's Lady Beeming, and that's her husband, not her grandfather sitting next to her. She's 20 and he's 65, and you'd swear from her appearance that the blood of a long line of noble ancestors ran through her veins.” He smiled drily. “But you'd be quite mistaken, for her parents were little green-grocers in Hoxton, and three years ago, before she went into the chorus at Sadler's Wells she was assisting in the shop and——” he broke off suddenly and nodded in the direction of a tall, gaunt man, who had just passed their table, “But look! There's a party who is just as hideous as she is lovely!”

“Who is he?” asked the planter. “He looks a near relation of Satan to me.”

“Sir Charles Carrion,” whispered the journalist, “and once one of the world's greatest surgeons. Crowned heads were among his patients, and in abdominal surgery he was the mightiest wielder of the knife. But his success was a cup of poison to him and some years ago, he had a nervous breakdown, and dropped out of things altogether. He looks a corpse now, but, funnily enough, he's returned into society lately, and I'm always running up against him in my work. Ascot, Goodwood, Cowes—you see him everywhere.”

“Go on,” said his friend. “Tell me about some of the other people here. I don't mind a few lies as long as they are interesting.”

The journalist pretended to look very angry. “Now, I've a darned good mind not to say another word, but as you shall now pay for this show, and I'm going to have another brandy, I'll overlook it this time.” He looked round the spacious winter-garden. “Now, let me see. Whom else do I know? Ah! there's somebody interesting, if you like, that rather pretty looking man, sitting at that table alone, and appearing so bored. Now what would you make of him?”

His friend looked in the direction indicated. “An artist,” he replied after a moment. “Good-looking himself, and certainly a lover of the beautiful.”

“Exactly,” nodded the journalist, “and a purloiner of it, too.” He spoke impressively. “That man, my friend, hails from Paris, and until recently was supposed to be one of the most active and expert thieves in France—Raphael Croupin. Haven't you heard of him?”

The planter shook his head. “A gaol bird!” he frowned. “Well, he doesn't look like one. What's he doing here?”

“Oh! he's quite respectable and a rich man now,” the other laughed. “One of his admirers, a wealthy old countess, died at the beginning of this year and left him a huge fortune, but before that, as I say, it was believed everywhere that he was a burglar—if a burglar of a very uncommon kind. He only took paintings of the old masters, old tapestries, historic jewels, and art treasures of great value. It was believed to be well-known to the authorities what he was doing, but they were never able to bring the robberies home to him. He has been up for trial three times and acquitted upon each occasion, because of water-tight alibies that could not be broken down. It was the joke of all France, and he was really a most popular character, for he only stole from the very rich and disbursed large sums in charity to the hospitals and among the very poor.”

The planter looked very amused. “Continue, my dear Travers,” he said smilingly. “You are most entertaining. Any more celebrities here?”

His friend looked round. “Yes,” he said, “there's a Cabinet Minister over there, Lord Ransome, that rather stout man, threading his way through the tables. He's the Home Secretary, and that's his daughter with him. Oh! oh!”—he exclaimed, becoming all at once quite animated—“now, there's some romance for you. See the people he's sitting down with? Well, they are Gilbert Larose, and his wife, who was once the wealthy widow, Lady Ardane.” He gripped his companion by the arm. “Two years ago, Travers, that man was just an ordinary policeman, a detective who used to be sent anywhere and everywhere by Scotland Yard, and now, to-day, he's married to one of the richest women in the kingdom, and lives almost in royal state at Carmel Abbey in Norfolk.”

“I've heard of him,” said the planter, very interested. “He was the star detective of Australia.” He drew in a deep breath. “Gad! his wife's beautiful! I always did admire red hair. What a lovely creature!”

“Yes, and there were scores of people who wanted her,” added the journalist, “and would have taken her without a penny piece, because of the beauty of that red head. She might have married into the peerage any day.” He sighed. “Larose is a lucky fellow.”

“But how did he manage it?” asked his friend.

“Merit, my boy, just merit,” was the instant reply, “and he deserves everything he's got, for he won her in the old-fashioned way, by saving her from her enemies. She was kidnapped and he rescued her at the risk of his own life, which, however, was nothing to him, for in his career he's been in more dangers than anyone can conceive.” He sighed again. “Yes, it was a real love-match and they worship each other and the red-haired little daughter that's come.”

“And good luck to him!” said the planter. “He looks a gentleman and a man of fine character.” He screwed up his eyes. “But how did people take it? What did society say?”

“Society!” laughed the journalist. “Well, Society was aghast!” His voice hardened. “But if anyone thought they were going to put one over Gilbert Larose, they were very much mistaken, for he just dropped into his place as if he'd been born to it. A strong character, nice manners, and a charming personality, he won over everybody at once, and to-day, at any public function in Norfolk, he's the biggest 'draw' you can get. Next to Royalty, he's the most popular attraction at any show, and his wife's immensely proud of him.”

“A policeman once,” commented the planter after a moment's silence, “and now that old aristocrat is smiling at him, almost as if he had a boon to crave.”

And had he only known it, the planter from Malay was quite right then, for although Lord Ransome had entered the winter-garden with no idea of meeting Gilbert Larose, the instant he had caught sight of him and his wife, he had immediately stopped, of set purpose, and with a gallant bow to Mrs. Larose, had held out his hand to her.

“And may we join you?” he asked, and at once receiving permission, he went on smilingly. “I see you are just as charming as ever, Mrs. Larose, and you don't look a day older than when I fell in love with your portrait in the academy—let me see, it must be six or seven years ago.”

Mrs. Larose shook her head reprovingly. “Now, that's not nice of you, Lord Ransome,” she laughed, “to remind me all that time has passed. You don't seem to realise that I am now fighting the years.”

“No, I certainly do not,” laughed back his lordship, “for there are no signs of warfare about you.” He bowed again. “I am sure I can congratulate your distinguished husband upon the care he is taking of you.” He turned to Larose. “Ah! that reminds me, sir, I've heard you're a most outstanding success upon the Bench. My friend, the Chief Constable of Norfolk, informs me that offenders are delighted to be brought up before you,”—he made a grimace—“for you either pay their fines yourself or let them off altogether.”

“Oh! no,” laughed Larose, “it's not quite as bad as that, Lord Ransome. Certainly, I always——”

“But he's not complaining,” broke in his lordship quickly. “On the contrary, for he says you are exerting a most splendid influence, and it has become almost a point of honour with the offenders not to be brought up again. For instance, I understand that there is no poaching at all now within many miles of Carmel Abbey.”

“But my husband bribes them,” smiled Mrs. Larose. “He gives them all a day's shooting every now and then, and makes me send out lunch, too,” she shook her head. “He's breaking all traditions and I can't do anything with him.”

They chatted animatedly together for a few minutes, Mrs. Larose telling of the delightful holiday she and her husband had been having for nearly three months in Switzerland, and how they had arrived only the previous day at Newhaven and were proceeding home on the morrow to Carmel Abbey. Then Lord Ransome turned to Larose and remarked carelessly, “Well, it's rather fortunate I met you here this afternoon, for I've been wanting for some time to have a little talk with you about your greyhounds. I have thought of entering one of mine for the Waterloo Cup, and should be most grateful to you for some advice.” He made an almost imperceptible movement with his eyebrows. “Now, what about coming up to my room for a few minutes? I am sure the ladies will excuse us.”

Larose regarded the great man curiously. He had only met him once before, and was sure, upon such a slight acquaintanceship, the Home Secretary would not now be inviting him to a private talk unless for some particular purpose quite unconnected with dogs. He had noted the expressive movement of the eyebrows, however, and so at once, falling in with the suggestion, rose from his chair and proceeded to accompany his lordship from the winter garden.

* * *