Elk 01 The Fellowship of the Frog (14 page)

Hagn! Even now Dick could not believe his eyes. The wig was so perfectly made, the beard so cunningly fixed, that he could not believe it was the manager of Heron’s Club. But when he heard the voice, he knew that Elk was right.

“Number Seven, eh?” drawled Hagn. “I guess Number Seven will get through your cordon without being challenged, Mr. Elk. He’s friendly with the police. What do you want me for?”

“I want you for the part you played in the murder of Chief Inspector Genter on the night of the fourteenth of May,” said Elk.

Hagn’s lips curled.

“Why don’t you take Broad?—he was there. Perhaps he’ll come as witness for me.”

“When I see him—” began Elk.

“Look out of the window,” interrupted Hagn. “He’s there!”

Dick walked to the window and, throwing up the sash, leant out. A crowd of locals in shawls and overcoats were watching the transference of the prisoners. Dick caught the sheen of a silk hat and the unmistakable voice of Broad hailed him.

“Good morning, Captain Gordon—Frog stock kind of slumped, hasn’t it? By the way, did you see the baby?”

Elk went out on the street to see the American. Mr. Broad was in faultless evening dress, and the gleaming head-lamps of his car illuminated the mean street.

“You’ve certainly a nose for trouble,” said Elk with respect; “and whilst you’re telling me how you came to know about this raid, which hadn’t been decided on until half-an-hour ago, I’ll do some quiet wondering.”

“I didn’t know there was a raid,” confessed Joshua Broad, “but when I saw twenty Central Office men dash out of Heron’s Club and drive furiously away, I am entitled to guess that their haste doesn’t indicate their anxiety to get to bed before the clock strikes two. I usually call at Heron’s Club in the early hours. In many ways its members are less desirable acquaintances than the general run of Frogs, but they amuse me. And they are mildly instructive. That is my explanation—I saw you leave in a hurry and I followed you. And I repeat my question. Did you see the dear little baby who is learning to spell R-A-T, Rat?”

“No,” said Elk shortly. He had a feeling that the suave and self-possessed American was laughing at him. “Come in and see the chief.”

Broad followed the inspector to the bedroom, where Dick was assembling the papers which in his hurried departure No. 7 had left behind. The capture was the most important that had been made since the campaign against the Frogs was seriously undertaken.

In addition to the copy of the secret report on Mills, there was a bundle of notes, many of them cryptic and unintelligible to the reader. Some, however, were in plain English. They were typewritten, and obviously they corresponded to the General Orders of an army. They were, in fact, the Frog’s own instructions, issued under the name of his chief of staff, for each bore the signature “Seven.”

One ran:

“Raymond Bennett must go faster. L. to tell him that he is a Frog. Whatever is done with him must be carried out with somebody unknown as Frog.”

Another slip:

“Gordon has an engagement to dine American Embassy Thursday. Settle. Elk has fixed new alarm under fourth tread of stairs. Elk goes to Wandsworth 4.15 to-morrow for interview with Mills.”

There were other notes dealing with people of whom Dick had never heard. He was reading again the reference to himself, and smiling over the laconic instruction “settle,” when the American came in.

“Sit down, Mr. Broad—by the sad look on Elk’s face I guess you have explained your presence satisfactorily?” Broad nodded smilingly.

“And Mr. Elk takes quite a lot of convincing,” he said. His eyes fell upon the papers on the table. “Would it be indiscreet to ask if that is Frog stuff?” he asked.

“Very,” said Dick, “In fact, any reference to the Frogs would be the height of indiscretion, unless you’re prepared to add to the sum of our knowledge.”

“I can tell you, without committing myself, that Frog Seven has made a getaway,” said the American calmly.

“How do you know?”

“I heard the Frogs jubilating as they passed down the street in custody,” said Broad. “Frog Seven’s disguise was perfect—he wore the uniform of a policeman.”

Elk swore softly but savagely.

“That was it!” he said. “He was the ‘policeman’ who was spiriting Hagn away under the pretence of arresting him! And if one of my men had not taken his prisoner from him they would both have escaped. Wait!”

He went in search of the detective who had brought in Hagn.

“I don’t know the constable,” said that officer. “This is a strange division to me. He was a tallish man with a heavy black moustache. If it was a disguise, it was perfect, sir.”

Elk returned to report and question. But again Mr. Broad’s explanation was a simple one.

“I tell you that the Frogs were openly enjoying the joke. I heard one say that the ‘rozzer’ got away—and another refers to the escaped man as a ‘Hattie’—both, I believe, are cant terms for policemen?”

Elk nodded.

“What is your interest in the Frogs, Broad?” he asked bluntly. “Forget for the minute that you’re a parlour criminologist and imagine that you’re writin’ the true story of your life.”

Broad considered for a while, examining the cigar he had been smoking.

“The Frogs mean nothing to me—the Frog everything.” The American puffed a ring of smoke into the air and watched it dissolve.

“I’m mighty curious to know what game he is playing with Ray Bennett,” he said. “That is certainly the most intriguing feature of Frog strategy.”

He rose and took up his hat.

“I envy you your search of this fine old mansion,” he said, and, with a twinkle in his eye: “Don’t forget the kindergarten, Mr. Elk.”

When he had gone, Elk made a close scrutiny of the house. He found two children’s books, both well-thumbed, and an elementary copybook, in which a childish hand had followed, shakily, the excellent copperplate examples. The abacus was gone, however. In the cupboard where he had seen the unopened circulars, he made a discovery. It was a complete outfit, as far as he could judge, for a boy of six or seven. Every article was new—not one had been worn. Elk carried his find to where Dick was still puzzling over some of the more obscure notes which “No. 7” had left in his flight.

“What do you make of these?” he asked.

The Prosecutor turned over the articles one by one, then leant back in his chair and stared into vacancy.

“All new,” he said absently, and then a slow smile dawned on his face.

Elk, who saw nothing funny in the little bundle, wondered what was amusing him.

“I think these clothes supply a very valuable clue; does this?” He passed a paper across the table, and Elk read:

“All bulls hear on Wednesday 3.1.A. L.V.M.B. Important.”

“There are twenty-five copies of that simple but moving message,” said Dick; “and as there are no envelopes for any of the instructions, I can only suppose that they are despatched by Hagn either from the club or his home. This is how far I have got in figuring the organization of the Frogs. Frog Number One works through Seven,’ who may or may not be aware of his chief’s identity. Hagn—whose number is thirteen, by the way, and mighty unlucky it will be for him—is the executive chief of Number Seven’s bureau, and actually communicates with the section chiefs. He may or may not know Seven ‘—probably he does. Seven takes orders from the Frog, but may act without consultation if emergencies arise. There is here,” he tapped the paper, “an apology for employing Mills, which bears this out.”

“No handwriting?”

“None—nor fingerprints.”

Elk took up one of the slips on which the messages were written, and held it to the light.

“Watermark Three Lion Bond,” he read. “Typewriter new, written by somebody who was taught and has a weak little finger of the left hand—the ‘q’ and ‘a’ are faint. That shows he’s a touch typist—uses the same finger every time. Self-taught typists seldom use their little fingers. Especially the little finger of the left hand. I once caught a bank thief through knowing this.” He read the message again.

“All bulls hear on Wednesday…’ Bulls are the big men, the bull frogs, eh? Where do they hear? 3.1.A.? That certainly leaves me guessing, Captain. Why, what do you think?”

Dick was regarding him oddly.

“It doesn’t get me guessing,” he said slowly. “At 3.1 a.m. on Wednesday morning, I shall be listening in for the code signal L.V.M.B.—we are going to hear that great Frog talk!”

“Will he talk about the durned treaty?” growled Elk.

Ray Bennett woke with a groan. His temples were splitting, his tongue was parched and dry. When he tried to lift his aching head from the pillow he groaned again, but with an effort of will succeeded in dragging himself from the bed and staggering to the window. He pushed open a leaded casement and looked out upon the green of Hyde Park, and all the time his temples throbbed painfully.

Pouring a glass of water from a carafe, he drank greedily, and, sitting down on the edge of the bed, his head between his hands, he tried to think. Only dimly did he recall the events of the night before, but he was conscious that something dreadful had happened. Slowly his mind started to sort out his experiences, and with a sinking heart he remembered he had struck his father! He shuddered at the recollection, and then began a frantic mental search for justification. The vanity of youth does not readily reject excuses for its own excesses, and Ray was no exception. By the time he had had his bath and was in the first stages of dressing, he had come to the conclusion that he had been very badly treated. It was unpardonable in him to strike his father—he must write to him expressing his sorrow and urging his condition as a reason for the act. It would not be a crawling letter (he told himself) but something dignified and a little distant. After all, these quarrels occurred in every family. Parents were temporarily estranged from their children, and were eventually reconciled. Some day he would go to his father a rich man…

He pursed his lips uneasily. A rich man? He was well off now. He had an expensive flat. Every week crisp new banknotes came by registered post. He had the loan of a car—how long would this state of affairs continue?

He was no fool. Not perhaps as clever as he thought he was, but no fool. Why should the Japanese or any other Government pay him for information they could get from any handbook available to all and purchasable for a few shillings at most booksellers?

He dismissed the thought—he had the gift of putting out of his mind those matters which troubled him. Opening the door which led into his dining-room, he stood stock-still, paralysed with astonishment.

Ella was sitting at the open window, her elbow on the ledge, her chin in her hand. She looked pale, and there were heavy shadows under her eyes.

“Why, Ella, what on earth are you doing here?” he asked. “How did you get in?”

“The porter opened the door with his pass-key when I told him I was your sister,” she said listlessly. “I came early this morning. Oh, Ray—aren’t you…aren’t you ashamed?”

He scowled.

“Why should I be?” he asked loudly. “Father ought to have known better than tackle me when I was lit up! Of course, it was an awful thing to do, but I wasn’t responsible for my actions at the time. What did he say?” he asked uncomfortably.

“Nothing—he said nothing. I wish he had. Won’t you go to Horsham and see him, Ray?”

“No—let it blow over for a day or two,” he said hastily. He most assuredly had no anxiety to meet his father. “If…if he forgives me he’ll only want me to come back and chuck this life. He had no right to make me look little before all those people. I suppose you’ve been to see your friend Gordon?” he sneered.

“No,” she said simply, “I have been nowhere but here. I came up by the workmen’s train. Would it be a dreadful sacrifice, Ray, to give up this?”

Be made an impatient gesture.

“It isn’t—this, my dear Ella, if by ‘this’ you mean the flat. It is my work that you and father want me to give up. I have to live up to my position.”

“What is your work?” she asked.

“You wouldn’t understand,” he said loftily, and her lips twitched.

“It would have to be very extraordinary if I could not understand it,” she said. “Is it Secret Service work?”

Ray went red.

“I suppose Gordon has been talking to you,” he complained bitterly. “If that fellow sticks his nose into my affairs he is going to have it pulled!”

“Why shouldn’t he?” she asked.

This was a new tone in her, and one that made him stare at her. Ella had always been the indulgent, approving, excusing sister. The buffer who stood between him and his father’s reproof.

“Why shouldn’t he?” she repeated. “Mr. Gordon should know something of Secret Service work—he himself is an officer of the law. You are either working lawfully, in which case it doesn’t matter what he knows, or unlawfully, and the fact that he knows should make a difference to you.”

He looked at her searchingly.

“Why are you so interested in Gordon—are you in love with him?” he asked.

Her steady eyes did not waver, and only the faintest tinge of pink came to the skin that sleeplessness had paled.

“That is the kind of question that a gentleman does not ask in such a tone,” she said quietly, “not even of his sister. Ray, you are coming back to daddy, aren’t you—to-day?”

He shook his head.

“No. I’m not. I’m going to write to him. I admit I did wrong. I shall tell him so in my letter. I can’t do more than that.”

There came a discreet knock on the door.

“Come in,” growled Ray. It was his servant, a man who came by the day.

“Will you see Miss Bassano and Mr. Brady, sir?” he asked in a hoarse whisper, and glanced significantly at Ella.