The Trail of Fear (3 page)

There was money in the dope traffic, more than in anything else, provided one went into it properly. Half the failures came either from taking only small profits and hanging on too long or else not organizing properly and being consequently betrayed, which, however, from his experience he knew was bound to happen sooner or later. He had only gone into the matter after careful thought and several months' preparation, always pitting his brain against those who in time would be after him.

He had a rule of his own concerning the habits of detectives. Once they had become suspicious of a person's mode of life and had decided to watch him, they were, he believed, always far more suspicious if they could find out nothing about him. But if, however, they found some small thing, they often never thought that there might be something bigger as well. Hence his cloak of a slightly mysterious agency, on which he knew the police had an eye, to cover the import of the white powder contained in the Warwickshire Regiment. Once they had looked into it, the mystery was very obviously that James Robinson did not want the public to know he dealt with a German firm and they bothered no further.

Jimmie Rezaire also had another rule. During his life he had found that it always pays to do the unexpected, however bold the course. Hence his disguise in the present case. He argued that usually the criminal commits his crime first and disguises himself afterward, thus increasing his chances of being taken. He had therefore disguised himself—as a fat man—for his crime and, to make his get-away, simply became himself again, small and thin, while Scotland Yard would in all probability be looking for a stout man wearing a disguise. When not even all his agents, who knew Robinson the dope runner, knew the real man in this affair, it was improbable that the police would.

Well, they were after him at last. Let them come, he thought, as he hurriedly gathered together a few things. He had only to walk into the next room, revert to his normal self and walk out of the other house as Mr. Carlyle. He had a car of his own garaged in Jermyn Street, a chauffeur, and a launch at Beaulieu to take him to the Channel Islands. He could lie low there for a bit and then go over to France where his earnings were stowed safely away. At the garage, in a private locker, of which the key was in his pocket, were a few other important papers, notably a passport ready made out for France, a small store of French money and a revolver. His whole line of escape was planned; and as for those who had been his agents, they could look after themselves.

He went stealthily to the window again and looked out. The loafer was still there. Right up at the far end of the street he could see a dim knot of men—doubtless the Scotland Yard detectives, who would be almost sure to be conducting such a big round-up, and perhaps some of the local police.

He laughed derisively and turned away to the table. Here he lit a candle and holding the little note-book in the flame methodically reduced it to ashes. He must leave no clue behind, he thought, as he next picked up the important letter which contained the secret of the quay at Beaulieu and his plan of escape…

Then he caught his breath suddenly, for without a sound, the door had opened and a man stood in the doorway looking at him.

CHAPTER III

FORCED COMPANIONS

For a moment Rezaire's heart stopped beating; then he gave a short laugh.

“Lord, how you startled me, Sam!” he said.

“Came up quiet,” said the other man stepping quickly into the room. “Had to. There's a ‘busy' outside hitched up to the railings looking about as much like a loafer as a sergeant-major on parade.”

He lounged against the desk, a long well-dressed figure with a coarsely handsome face, and full arrogant lips. He was one of Rezaire's four agents, “Long Sam” by name. With his “hail fellow” and yet gentlemanly air he was responsible for pushing out the “stuff,” as required, to those young men and girls with whom he picked up in bar lounges and night clubs. He had a forceful personality and once he had formed his acquaintances soon dominated them by his cheery but overbearing manner.

At the moment he seemed remarkably cool, despite the fact that the police were evidently surrounding the house and would soon begin to force an entry.

“You don't seem pleased to see me,” he said rather harshly.

“Oh, yes I am,” replied Rezaire, though his voice was anything but pleased. At the back of his mind was the knowledge that this new arrival considerably complicated his plan of escape which was intended for one and not for two. Also, he was more than a little afraid of his companion's domineering personality, though he knew that he himself had up to now been the unquestioned leader of the gang by holding the advantage in experience and brains. He foresaw a troublesome time ahead, for he did not think he could possibly get away scot-free if Long Sam insisted on coming too, whereas he knew enough of Long Sam's vindictive and cruel nature to realize that his life would not be worth a pinch of “snow” if he tried to side-track him. A little fear began to creep into his mind, fear of the tall man in front of him.

“Why didn't you push off when you saw the 'tecs?” he asked at length.

“What! Cut and run! Why, they'd have got me in a moment. Only chance was to come up here as if I saw nothing. I guess they're wise to our meeting and are waiting till we're all here. They won't start anything till all the birds are in the net.” He dropped his light-hearted manner and went on fiercely: “Looks to me as if someone had blown on us. Well, if ever I catch him, or anyone else, trying to double-cross me, I'll—do you know what I'll do?”

He advanced and thrust his big coarse face up against Rezaire. The other automatically shrank back, still holding in his hand the letter which he had been just about to burn.

“I'll cut him to pieces,” went on Long Sam furiously, his big lips working. “I don't care much for a gun, but I do like this.” He whipped an evil-looking long-bladed knife in a thin leather case from his hip. “No noise or fuss—and a nigger out in America taught me how to use it. And if you want to know how a nigger uses a knife…”

“Gently, gently, Sam,” remonstrated the other, recoiling. “I haven't double-crossed you, nor likely to.”

“That is the truest word you've spoken,” said Sam grimly; then with another change… “Why, old man, I know you won't betray us. After all, it's due to your brain that we've run clear so far.” The door swung suddenly open and both men jumped as a woman entered. She was of medium height and young, about twenty-four, with dark bobbed hair and wide brown eyes that seemed somehow foreign.

“Evening, boys,” she said, with but the faintest trace of an accent.

“Game's up, Viv,” said Long Sam tersely.

“What? Where?” suddenly gasped the girl, her face paling.

“Outside. Didn't you see him?”

She ran to the window and peeped cautiously out, then looked over her shoulder, fear in her eyes. The two men watched her narrowly.

“Someone's given us away!”

“That's what I say. But who?”

“Must be either Harrap or Joe. Why, I'll swear it's Joe. He always was a fool and a coward. But what are we going to do now, if they're outside? Why are we waiting?” She ran to Jimmie Rezaire. “Jimmie, tell us what to do.”

Long Sam's voice cut into her quick sentences.

“No need to get excited, Vivienne!” he said grimly. “They won't come up just yet.” He crossed to the window. “When they begin the round-up, you'll see that fellow opposite move up.”

“Jimmie, tell us what to do!” urged Vivienne again, and Sam came back to the table.

“Jimmie will tell us what to do all right,” he said. “I know he's cleverer than any of us and therefore he's got a plan of escape somewhere up his sleeve.” His eyes rested on the candle and the pile of ashes with a look of comprehension. “All ready to go, eh? Just burning the evidence?” He stared hard at the letter in Rezaire's hand and the other made as if to thrust it in the flame, then, thinking better of it, returned it to the envelope and put it away in his pocket. “Secret?” went on Sam with a nasty little laugh. “Plan of escape, eh?” he added with a flash of intuition.

A sick feeling made itself known in Rezaire's heart as he saw the compelling eyes of Long Sam on him and realized that all his carefully laid plans were being reduced to nothing. He thought of the launch, and the car, of the precious letter in his pocket which he must not let Sam see, and groaned inwardly. What a fool he was not to have gone a few moments sooner.

“Come on, spit it out,” said Sam affably. “We haven't any time to lose.”

“I haven't any plan,” said Rezaire between dry lips, one eye on the door where at any moment now the last of his accomplices might come in, to be followed by the police.

“Think again,” almost purred Sam, his hand on the hip where lay the knife. “You with all your brains, who organized and ran this show as well as any show I've seen.” Cruelly arrogant, he utterly dominated the other by now. “What's in that paper you didn't dare burn just now for fear I should snatch it? You got us into this show, you must get us away.”

“Yes, yes,” suddenly broke in the girl. “Jimmie, you and I have worked together for a long while. I know you,” she added in a whisper, “as yourself. You must help. Surely you've got a get-away or hiding place somewhere.” She stared wildly round the room.

“I—I can't help. Let Sam suggest something.”

“Jimmie—Jimmie, you helped me once,”—her voice was soft—“even to your own danger. Oh, I know things are different now—there are other girls and—with me there are other men, but that wasn't so once.”

“Why should I help either you or Sam? I've done the hardest part of the job. If it hadn't been for me you'd all have been roped in long ago.”

“You collared the largest part of the swag for your trouble,” interposed Sam.

There was a pause—a deadlock, it seemed. Rezaire stared at Sam, the man he had used as a tool and now hated because the tool was in reality stronger than the man who handled it. Then he made as if to give way.

“Go a little way downstairs, Sam,” he ordered, “and see if they are coming up.”

Long Sam half moved, then smiled derisively. “What? While you and Viv slip off? Why, I thought you were clever?” He moved suddenly away from the window where he had been watching the street and striding up to Rezaire hung menacingly over him. “See here,” he snarled, “stop this darn fooling. You've got a bolt hole and you're going to take us down it, or you know what I'll do to you. What's in that letter?” he snapped suspiciously again.

His hand shot out but at that moment a step sounded on the stairs and all three jumped, looking at one another. Before they could move further, a little man with a scared face, rather like a white rat, stepped quickly into the room.

“They're here,” he said excitedly. “Tried to nab me. Joe was caught this evening and blew the gaff! They're all round now—plain-clothes men and ‘flatties' just up the road… They'll be up any minute.”

Rezaire ran quickly to the gas. His mind was made up. Whether he had to take the others with him or not, he had to save himself.

“Quick then, follow me,” he cried hoarsely and plunged the room in darkness. Already he could hear a knocking on the door downstairs. In the darkness he felt Sam's big hand on his shoulder.

“Just to see where you go,” came the menacing whisper.

He pressed the catch of the file cabinet and the front swung open. The knocking below grew louder. He bent down and passed through into the wardrobe of Carlyle's room.

“Shut the door behind you,” he whispered back, once more in charge of the situation, “and don't make a noise.”

There was a little snap, the sound of the knocking faded away, and the four were in the author's room in the next house, dimly lit by the low turned gas jet.

“Someone's there,” gasped Vivienne, suddenly terrified, as the intermittent clicking of the typewriter came out of the gloom. Rezaire only laughed and turning up the light very slightly, pointed to the machine which he switched off.

“I am working here,” he said, “as far as they know outside.” He spoke shortly to the last corner: “Now come in, Harrap, and shut that door. We're quite safe.” Already he seemed to have taken charge of them all; again he was the master by virtue of his superior intellect. Characteristically, once he had found that he was forced to see that they all escaped, he set about it coolly and thoroughly.

“I think we can get out through the back garden,” he went on. “There's an alley leading between the houses, and the detectives will be watching the other house.”

“Well, I've got a gun and so have you, I suppose, Harrap. I'll back myself to get out of most places.”

“Never mind about that,” cut in Rezaire sharply. “The less shooting the better, or we'll swing. If we disguise ourselves we may be able to walk out on a bluff.” He ran hurriedly to a chest of drawers and began pulling out clothes. “Sam, you take these, pull the cap down over your eyes, and… Go on; you know how to disguise yourself! Harrap, take this lot. Viv, you'd better take off those clothes and get into these breeches and things. Quick now! There's a screen there, if you're shy.” For the next few minutes there was silence as the four hurriedly dressed, broken only by exclamations of surprise from Sam and Harrap as they watched the transformation of Robinson into Carlyle.

“Do you mean to tell me,” said Sam, a new note of respect in his voice, “that you've been disguised the whole time we knew you and that now, while we're dolled up trying to look like someone else, you've only got to be yourself?”

“That's the way of it,” replied Rezaire shortly, slipping an automatic into his pocket, his brain busy with schemes for getting out of the house, which, despite his confidence, he knew would be difficult. There would most certainly be men in the next garden watching the house they had left. Were he alone, he could probably walk out of the front door, even speaking to the policeman, it being his custom always to take the boldest and therefore the most unexpected line of action, but with these three hanging to him like lumps of lead on a float, everything was different.

Vivienne, already dressed and looking like a handsome boy, was nervously playing with the machine fixed on the typewriter switching it on and off. She alone had not expressed surprise at the transformation of James Robinson, for she alone knew the real Jimmie Rezaire. Harrap was looking in admiration at the headless Warwickshire Regiment. Sam was putting the last swift touches to his disguise. The whole affair had taken only a few minutes. Out in the street they could hear shouting and a noise of tramping in the next house.

“So this is how the stuff came in,” murmured Harrap. “Gee, you're a wonder. Don't you want to hide this?”

“No, that's all done with now. Let 'em find it if they like. Are we all ready?”

“Now, listen to me,” said Long Sam, once more aggressively suspicious. He walked up to Rezaire. “We're in your hands entirely. If you think you're just going to get us out of the house and then push off yourself, you're bloody well mistaken. You've got to see us through.”

“Yes, yes,” chimed in Harrap eagerly, closing up like a jackal behind Sam.

“That's all right, Sam,” said Rezaire hurriedly, the old fear creeping over him. “I'll do my best for you and I haven't been beaten yet. I've got a plan of escape fixed, right away to the continent. If I get through I'll take you with me.”

“Tell us where it is,” said Harrap, “in case we get separated.”

“No,” said Rezaire in determined fashion, “I won't.”

“But you may get caught and not us?”

“In that case, you'll never know what my plan was. See here,” he went on swiftly, perceiving a way of stopping treachery on their part at any rate. “I'm going to insure that you play straight with me.” He suddenly pulled the all important letter from his pocket. “This is my plan written down in this letter, and I'm going to keep it. You've got to guard it—and me too.”

“Well of all the…” began Sam.

“You'll come on my terms or not at all. This is my plan and if I get caught and can't use it, you won't either. On the other hand, if you're caught, you're not going to have the chance of betraying me.”

There was a tense silence in the room. In the next house noise could be faintly heard.

“Well,” said Sam at last, who saw that he was in earnest, “I suppose we'll have to. But just you listen to me. As I've said before, if you try to double-cross me I'll cut you up with this knife till your own mother won't know you. You'll only get imprisonment if you're caught by the police, but you'll get worse from me. I know you well enough and I know what you're afraid of.”

Instinctively Rezaire shrank away from the vindictive cruelty of the man. Sam had put his finger on his weak spot. Despite his boldness and cunning, he knew himself to be more afraid of death and physical pain than anything else in the world. A slight film came before his eyes and for a moment he felt quite sick. Then Vivienne, hurriedly leaving the typewriter, was at his side. Her warm arm twined into his as it had done often before and a little glow of courage crept back into his heart.