The Fourth Plague (7 page)

“This has been addressed to the Sa' Remo Ambassador,” he said. “I won't trouble to read it to you; it is the usual sort of thing. Only this time it is a child who is threatened.”

“A child!”

Tillizini's black brows met in an ugly frown. “That is their principal card,” he said slowly, “I wondered how long they would keep their hands off the children; what does he threaten, our unknown?”

“Abduction first—murder afterwards, if the abduction fails.”

Tillizini took the letter from the other's hand and read it carefully. He held the paper to the light.

“This is the American gang—I thought we'd wiped them out, but it was evidently a bigger organization than I credited.”

The musical little bell rang overhead. Tillizini raised his eyes, listening. After the shortest interval the bell rang again.

The professor nodded. A big black box stood at one corner of the table—he unlocked it, the detective watching him curiously. With the turning of the key and the lifting of the lid, the front fell away, revealing three sedate rows of crystal phials.

Tillizini took one from the front, slipped it in his pocket, then bent down and pressed the bell in the table.

The door opened to admit a servant, followed by a fresh-coloured young man evidently of the working class. Crocks looked at him, saw he was an Englishman, and wondered in what way the two men had become acquainted. The young man accepted a seat at the invitation of Tillizini.

“Well, my friend,” said the professor pleasantly, “you are willing to go on with this matter?”

“Yes sir,” said the other, firmly.

Tillizini nodded.

“I got your message,” he said. He turned to the detective.

“This man's name is Carter,” he said briefly; “he is an out-of-work plumber, unmarried, without family, and prepared to take risks. You have been in the army, I think?” he said.

The newcomer nodded. He sat uneasily on the edge of his chair as though unused to good society, and with obvious embarrassment.

“I advertised,” Tillizini went on, “for a man who was willing to risk his life; I'm paying him two hundred pounds, and he is earning it.”

Crocks was mystified.

“Exactly what does he do?” he asked.

“That,” said Tillizini, with a slow smile, “is exactly what he does not know.”

He turned to the other man, who grinned sheepishly.

“I carry out instructions,” he said, “and I've had a hundred pounds.”

“Lucid enough, Mr. Crocks; he does nothing except live in a lodging in Soho, make his way to a wharf over there,” he pointed out of the window, “every evening at about this hour, signal to me a fairly unintelligible message, and afterwards walk slowly across Westminster Bridge, along the Embankment, up Vilhers Street, and so to my house.”

He paced the room with long swinging strides.

“He has taken his life in his hands, and he knows it,” he said. “I have told him that he will probably be assassinated, but that does not deter him.”

“In these hard times,” said the soldier, “a little thing like that doesn't worry you; it is better to be assassinated than to be starved to death, and I have been out of work for twelve months until Mr. Tillizini gave me this job.”

“He receives two hundred pounds,” Tillizini went on, “by contract. I have paid him one hundred, I shall pay him another hundred to-night and his expenses. Probably,” he said, with a little smile, “he may escape with minor injuries, in which case I shall congratulate him heartily.”

He turned briskly to the man.

“Now let me have all the papers you have got in that pocket. Put them on the table.”

The man dived into his various pockets and produced scraps of paper, memorandum, pocket-books—all the literary paraphernalia of his class.

From his pocket Tillizini took the phial he had removed from the medicine chest. He unstoppered it, and a pungent, sickly odour filled the room. With the moist tip of the stopper he touched each article the man had laid on the table.

“You will get used to the smell,” he said, with a smile; “you won't notice it after a while.”

“What is it?” asked Crocks, curiously.

“You will be surprised when I tell you,” said the other. “It is double distilled attar of roses, the vilest smell in the world in its present stage, and this bottle I have in my hand is worth commercially, twenty-five pounds.”

At a nod from Tillizini, Carter gathered up his papers and replaced them in his pockets.

“You have a revolver?” asked the professor.

“Yes, sir,” replied the man. “I'm just getting used to it. I don't understand these automatic pistols, but I went down to Wembley the other day and had some practice.”

“I hope that no occasion will arise for you to have practice nearer at hand,” said Tillizini, dryly.

He rang the bell, and the servant came.

“Get Mr. Carter some supper,” he ordered. He nodded to the man as he left.

“What is the meaning of this?” asked Crocks.

“That you shall see,” said the other.

“But I don't understand,” said the bewildered detective. “Why should you give this man so large a sum to do nothing more than send electric signals to you every evening?”

Tillizini sat down at his desk.

“Mr. Crocks,” he said, “it would be false modesty on my part if I pretended that my movements escape the notice of the ‘Red Hand.' I am perfectly satisfied in my own mind that I do not go in or out of this house without the organization being aware of the fact. Every step I take is watched; every action of mine is considered in the light of a possible menace to the society.

“This society knows that every evening I am engaged in the exchange of messages with a man south of the Thames. The very mysteriousness will naturally appeal to the Latin temperament, and its significance will be magnified. On the second night you may be sure that Carter was located. You may also be sure that he was watched from the wharf and followed to this house.”

A light began to dawn upon the detective. “Then Carter is a decoy?”

“A two hundred pound decoy,” said the other, gravely. “He knows the risk, I am paying him a big sum; fortunately he is something of a signaller, and so he is able to tell me through a code of our own what is happening on the other side of the river. I freely admit,” he smiled, “that so far nothing has happened worth recording.”

“They will kill him,” said Crocks.

“They will try,” said the other quietly; “he is a pretty resourceful man, I think. I am hoping that nothing worse will happen than that they will seek a gentler method of solving the mystery which surrounds him. Hallo!” The door was thrust open suddenly, and the servant flew in.

“I'm very sorry, sir——” he stammered.

“What's the matter?” Tillizini was on his feet. “Is it Carter?”

“No, sir—he's in the kitchen. I heard a ring at the bell, and the girl”—he went on incoherently—“a girl sort of fell in. What am I to do, sir?”

“Fell in?” Tillizini stepped quickly past him, and went down the broad stairs, two at a time, to the hall.

The man had had sufficient presence of mind to close the door after the strange visitor's appearance.

Lying on the carpeted floor of the hall was the form of a woman. Tillizini, practised as he was in every subtle move of the gang, stepped forward cautiously. She lay under an overhanging light, and he was able to see her face. He lifted her and walked quickly back up the stairs with his burden.

Crocks was standing in the doorway of the room.

“What is it?” he asked.

Tillizini made no reply. He carried the limp figure and laid it on the settee by the wall.

“What happened?” he asked the man shortly.

“I heard the bell ring, sir,” said the agitated servant, “and I went to the door thinking it was—”

“Never mind all that—be brief,” said Tillizini.

“Well, I opened the door, sir, and she must have fainted against it. I'd just time to catch her and to drag her into the hall before she went off.”

“Did you see anybody outside?”

“No, sir,” said the man.

“You closed the door behind you, I see,” said Tillizini approvingly. “Really, I shall make something of you, Thomas.”

From his medicine case he took a slender phial, removed the stopper, and wetted the tip of his finger with the contents. He brushed this along the lips of the unconscious girl.

“She has only fainted,” he said, while with a quick, deft hand he felt the pulse, and his sensitive fingers pressed the neck ever so slightly.

The drug he had given her had a marvellously rapid effect.

She opened her eyes almost immediately and looked round. Then she caught sight of Tillizini's face.

“Don't try to speak,” he said, gently. “Just wait. I will get you a little wine, though I don't think you will require it.”

She tried to sit up, but his firm hand restrained her.

“Lie quietly for a little while,” he said. “This gentleman is a detective from Scotland Yard. You need have no fear.”

“Are you Dr. Tillizini?” she asked.

He nodded.

“My husband—you've seen him?” she whispered.

Tillizini nodded again.

“Yes, yes. He was the man who was sentenced at Burboro'.”

A look of pain passed across the white-faced girl.

“Yes, he was sentenced,” she said, weakly. “He was innocent, but he was sentenced.” Tears welled into her eyes.

Tillizini had the narrow blue phial in the palm of his hand. Again he tilted it, and again the tip of his little finger swept across the lips of the girl. She knit her brows.

“What is that?” she said. “It is very sweet stuff.”

The professor smiled.

“Yes, it is very sweet, my child,” he said, “but it will do you a lot of good.”

His prediction was verified, for in a few minutes she sat up—calm and collected.

“I heard you had been to see my husband,” she said. “I wanted to talk to you, but you had gone; and then I thought I would write to you, and I was starting my letter when a gentleman came.”

“Which gentleman?” asked Tillizini.

“The Italian gentleman,” she replied—“the one my husband said had asked him to go to Highlawn. Oh, I knew it wasn't true that he burgled Sir Ralph. Poor as we were, he would never have done such a thing.”

Tillizini nodded, he raised his hand with a reproving little smile.

“Yes, the Italian came, and what did he want?”

She was calm again.

“He gave me some money,” said the girl, “and told me that he would see that my husband was released, and I was so grateful because I felt so sure that he would go to Sir Ralph and tell him, and George would be let out of gaol.”

She was little more than a child, and the men who listened were too full of pity to smile at her naive conception of Sir Ralph's power.

“And then,” she went on, “he asked me a dreadful thing.”

She shuddered at the thought.

“He asked me to do that for which my husband was convicted.”

“To go to the house?”

“Yes,” she nodded.

“And to take a package?”

Again the girl nodded.

“And you were to do this on Friday night?”

His eyes were blazing with excitement.

“Yes,” she said. “How do you know?”

A little look of fear came into her face. She was out of her depth in these plots and machinations, this simple country girl, who had entered into the responsibilities and trials of marriage at an age when most girls were at school.

“I know,” said Tillizini.

He walked up and down the apartment, his hands thrust in his pockets, his head bent.

“You won't be able to do it now. They've watched you come up here; I suppose that's why you came to me?”

“Yes,” she said. “I am so afraid of these men. We are quiet country folk. We have never been mixed up in anything like this.”

Tillizini considered a moment; then he took down the telephone receiver and gave a number. He had a brief conversation with somebody in Italian and he spoke with an air of authority. He hung the receiver up again.

“I have telephoned for a lady to come here to take you to her house,” he said. “I don't think these people will bother you at all, because you know nothing which can possibly affect them one way or the other. I suppose,” he said, turning to Crocks, “that you can give me a couple of men to look after this girl till she reaches the house where I am sending her?”

Crocks nodded.

“I'll take her myself,” he said, jovially. “I am worth two men.”

Tillizini smiled.

“I sometimes think,” he said, “that you are worth three. The one you are, the one you can be, and the one you never appear to be!”

Crocks chuckled.

VI. —THE THREE

IF YOU WALK FROM London Bridge along Tooley Street, through Rotherhithe, you come to Lower Deptford. Passing through this, you reach Deptford proper, and leading off from the left you will find a long straight road which crosses the Ravensbourne, and connects Greenwich—the one quaint corner of London which steadfastly refuses to be entirely modernized—with its more busy neighbour.

The connecting road once accommodated the well-to-do middle class of Deptford, in the days when Deptford was a prosperous port, and when swarthy seafaring men with gold ear-rings recalled the brave days when the Great Peter himself worked in the shipyard and lived in a piggish fashion at Evelyn House.

The houses are narrow-fronted and of a set pattern. There are overhanging wooden canopies to each of the doors; in some one finds traces of oak panelling, but usually the present-day tenants have utilized such of the wood as they can detach for the purpose of lighting their fires. For what was once Deptford's glory is now Deptford's slum. The great houses ring with the shrill voices of innumerable children. Floor after floor is let out in tenements, and in some cases a dozen families occupy the restricted space which, in olden times, barely sufficed to accommodate the progeny of opulent ship chandlers.

When Mill Lane was Rowtonized, its hovels, its insanitary dens and its quaint little cottages pulled down by a wise borough architect, the Italian colony which had made its home in that unsalubrious neighbourhood moved northward and distributed itself along the road of ancient respectability.

In the main the Italian made a good neighbour, quiet, sober, inoffensive; his piano-organ stalled in the confined area of the back yard, was, perhaps, a nuisance to men who loved to sleep far into the morning, but he gave little offence otherwise.

In one of these houses, on an upper floor, three men were sitting round a table. A large fiasco of Chianti occupied the place of honour upon the table, and glasses had been set for the men by one who was evidently the host. The windows were heavily curtained and shuttered, the door itself had been edged with felt by the careful tenant, and as a further precaution against interruption there sat outside the door, two steps down the narrow stairs, the dark figure of a man, whose duty it was to see that the conference was not disturbed.

The host was a tall man, immensely powerful; his black hair was cropped short; his face, lined and seamed, was half hidden by a bushy black beard.

His shirt opened to show a patch of hairy chest, and the powerful arms revealed by the rolled-up sleeves spoke of enormous strength. They spoke truly, for Tommasino Patti bore in his own country the nickname “Il Bue,” which signifies, “The Ox.”

It was as “Il Bue” that his companions knew him, though there was nothing bovine in the evil but intelligent face, nor in his lithe, quick movements.

The man on his left was short and stout; clean-shaven save for a black moustache, carefully twisted to a curl at either end. He was short of breath, and spoke like one with chronic asthma, in deep, rumbling, wheezy tones.

Facing Il Bue was a young man who contrasted remarkably with his companions. For, whilst the giant was careless to the point of slovenliness in his attire, and the stout man but little better, this third member of the council was dressed with exquisite care.

He was a slim and graceful young man of medium height; handsome, with his olive skin, his fine forehead, and his slight dark moustache. He wore a suit of simple cut, which fitted him perfectly. His cravat was of dull black silk, and the only jewellery he wore was a black pearl in his cravat, and a thin gold chain across his waistcoat.

He was a man who had been carefully valeted, and, from the dove-grey spats on his boots to his manicured finger-tips, he was correctness personified. His silk-lined overcoat lay carefully folded over the back of the chair, with a soft black felt hat on top. He himself lounged in the one comfortable chair which the room boasted—and his legs thrown over the arm of the chair displayed a glimpse of grey silk socks. He looked little more than twenty, though he was in reality much older.

His attitude towards the others was one of amused curiosity. From time to time he examined his beautiful nails with solicitude, as though he found them much more interesting than the conversation. And yet the talk was startling enough.

The stout man had finished the story of his adventure.

“And Signors,” he said appealingly, “I, myself, could have secured this jewel, but for the restrictions which your Excellencies placed on me.”

He spoke alternately to Il Bue and the young man at the foot of the table.

“Why?” he asked, in extravagant despair, “why is it necessary that you should employ a third person—one without finesse, like this man, Mansingham, who blunders through the house, awakes the servants, and is arrested? It was tempting Providence, Signors; it would be almost as much a temptation to employ the girl.”

The young man smiled.

“You are a fool,” he said.

They were speaking in liquid Italian, and the youth's voice was soft and melodious.

“Have we no example of the folly of acting otherwise?”

He raised his eyebrows, and for a moment a baleful light shone in his eyes, changing the whole character of his face.

“Listen, my little man.” He tapped the table before him, and spoke with quiet emphasis. “What may seem simple to you is not so simple to us. It is the rule of ‘Our Friends,' when such a raid is carried out, that the person who abstracts and the person who immediately receives shall be unknown to one another. Moreover,” he said, carefully choosing his words, “it is necessary, since a certain happening which you may remember, that the medallion, if medallion it be, shall be received by two of our brethren, and not by one.”

He smiled.

“I repeat,” he said, “And not by one.”

He looked at Il Bue, still smiling, and then at the stout man.

“A year ago,” he said, “we had marked down something we required. It was a medallion. One of those two medallions, I know, contains a secret which will make us rich. We commissioned a brother skilled in scientific abstraction to remove that jewel. It follows, my dear Pietro, that the same set of brains which can wield, with great skill, a set of tools for the removal of locks or the forcing of glass cases may be entirely inefficient or inadequate when it comes to the removal and the safeguarding of the treasure. In stealing, as in all other sciences, the specialist has the advantage; we instruct one specialist to take the medallion from its case—wherever it may be—we employ two other specialists jointly to receive that jewel and to take it to a place of safety—watching each other the while. You follow me?”

The stout man nodded grudgingly, and the young man went on.

“The gentleman,” he said, with grim humour, “who received that precious relic of which the society stood in the greatest need, disappeared with it. He was false to his oath, false to his kin; he demonstrated the falsity of the English adage, that there was honour amongst thieves—and indeed there is not—and, although eventually we found him, we never found the jewel.”

He took a flat gold cigarette case from his pocket, took out a cigarette and lit it.

“It would have been no satisfaction to us to remove this erring friend. It was fortunate that he saved us the trouble by removing himself. We did not find the jewel,” he repeated. “That most desirable thing he had, in his panic, handed to some peasant or other. That peasant we have at last located.”

He exchanged a swift glance with Il Bue, and the big man nodded emphatically.

“Whether we shall get the jewel remains to be seen,” continued the exquisite young man, puffing rings of smoke at the ceiling.

“At any rate, the necessity for taking precautions in the matter of receiving these articles which are so precious to us, and which are located with such great pains and with such labour, must be fairly obvious.”

He looked at his watch.

“Now, I have little time to spare. Let me see what is to be seen.”

The big man rose and walked heavily across the room. He put his hand under the pillow of a truckle bed which stood in the corner, and pulled out a long, flat box. He brought it to the other, and opened it with a key which hung with a crucifix about his neck.

It was a curious collection which met the young man's eyes. The box was almost filled with lockets of every conceivable shape and description. There were lockets of gold and of silver, lockets carved from crystal, lockets so encrusted with jewels that it was impossible to tell what was the subsidiary metal. Some bore a painted miniature, others were brilliant with enamels.

The young man fingered them with quick and skilful hands. He lifted them one by one from their box, laid them in the palm of his hand, and turned them; and, as he examined, he rejected.

He finished his labours at last.

“They are very valuable,” he said, “but not of the value I hoped. We have to search still further. I believe that the locket which is in the possession of this foolish man Morte-Mannery is more likely to be the one we seek than any other. We must lose no time and spare no pains to secure it.”

He took a flat leather wallet from his inside coat pocket, opened it and removed a sheet of paper. There was a drawing in pencil.

“This is it,” he said, “if any is.”

He passed the design to the stout man.

“You observe those curious arabesques, that cupid, that tiny hoofed devil? That is the master's own work.”

He spoke with enthusiasm. For one moment the sinister object of the chase was lost sight of in his artistic appreciation of the design.

“There are two such lockets in the world.”

He spoke more quickly now.

“One we may secure to-night. The other on Friday. We must make some arrangements. If necessary I will go down myself and receive the locket. This drawing,” he pointed to the paper, “almost decides me. We can afford to slacken our efforts elsewhere and concentrate them upon Burboro'. By the way, what money is wanted?”

“A thousand English pounds,” said the stout man, breathlessly.

The young man laughed.

“It is absurd to ask for a thousand pounds for something which may be of no value whatever,” he said. “You must promise her—where is she, by the way?”

“She will be in town to-night, Signor,” said Pietro.

The young man nodded.

“She is very faithful and enthusiastic,” he said; “a curious woman, our Lisa,” he mused, as he rose.

Il Bue jumped to his feet and assisted him with his overcoat.

“You will probably find her useful, to-night.”

“Why don't you trust her to get the jewel from this pig's house?” asked the tall man gruffly.

The young exquisite smiled.

“My poor man,” he said, “if I do not trust a brother, why should I trust—”

“No,” he said, a little harshly, as he stood by the door buttoning his coat, “I take no more risks. My father warned me against any such folly, and I neglected his warning. I have had to pay the price for my neglect. Who is outside?” he asked suddenly.

“Beppo,” said Il Bue. “I had to have somebody who was reliable. Beppo loves the dark.”

“He is an unwholesome beast,” said the young man, lightly. “He would cut my throat or yours for a piastre.”

“That may be,” said the other, with a growl, “but a man whose neck is in danger, and whose life depends upon keeping faith, is one to employ for such work.”

They opened the door, the brawny host leading the way, carrying a hand-lamp. A figure sat crouched on the stairs, his knees drawn up and his head bent low.

“A pretty sentry! He's asleep!” said the young man.

Il Bue leant down, and grasped the man by the neck.

“Wake up, you dog,” he hissed. “Is this the way?”

Then he stopped, for the head fell back jerkily, and a handle of a dagger protruding from his heart gave them a complete explanation of his silence.

Yes! there he lay—this man, who had perjured himself clear of the scaffold in two countries—this jackal of a villainous confederacy—and the three men stared at him in amazement and horror.

The former state only could be applied to the young man, who, without any pause, without any sign of emotion, continued buttoning his gloves.

“There is only one man who could have done that,” he said, thoughtfully, “and that man is Antonio Tillizini.”