Four Just Men (13 page)

It seems a very lame excuse to urge on Billy's behalf that this cupidity alone stayed his hand when he came face to face with the man he was searching for. And yet it was so. Then again there was a sum in simple proportion to be worked out. If one Just Man was worth a thousand pounds, what was the commercial value of four? Billy was a thief with a business head. There were no waste products in his day's labour. He was not a conservative scoundrel who stuck to one branch of his profession. He would pinch a watch, or snatch a till, or pass snide florins with equal readiness. He was a butterfly of crime, flitting from one illicit flower to another, and nor above figuring as the X of 'information received'.

So that when Poiccart disappeared within the magnificent portals of the Royal Hotel in Northumberland Avenue, Billy was hipped. He realised in a flash that his captive had gone whither he could not follow without exposing his hand; that the chances were he had gone for ever. He looked up and down the street; there was no policeman in sight. In the vestibule, a porter in shirt sleeves was polishing brasses. It was still very early; the streets were deserted, and Billy, after a few moment's hesitation, took a course that he would not have dared at a more conventional hour.

He pushed open the swing doors and passed into the vestibule. The porter turned on him as he entered and favoured him with a suspicious frown.

"What do you want?" asked he, eyeing the tattered coat of the visitor in some disfavour.

"Look 'ere, old feller," began Billy, in his most conciliatory tone.

Just then the porter's strong right arm caught him by the coat collar, and Billy found himself stumbling into the street.

"Outside--you," said the porter firmly.

It needed this rebuff to engender in Marks the necessary self-assurance to carry him through.

Straightening his ruffled clothing, he pulled Falmouth's card from his pocket and returned to the charge with dignity.

"I am a p'lice officer," he said, adopting the opening that he knew so well, "and if you interfere with me, look out, young feller!"

The porter took the card and scrutinised it.

"What do you want?" he asked in more civil tones. He would have added 'sir', but somehow it stuck in his throat. If the man is a detective, he argued to himself, he is very well disguised.

"I want that gentleman that came in before me," said Billy.

The porter scratched his head.

"What is the number of his room?" he asked.

"Never mind about the number of his room," said Billy rapidly. "Is there any back way to this hotel--any way a man can get out of it ? I mean, besides through the front entrance?"

"Half a dozen," replied the porter.

Billy groaned.

"Take me round to one of them, will you?" he asked. And the porter led the way.

One of the tradesmen's entrances was from a small back street; and here it was that a street scavenger gave the information that Marks had feared. Five minutes before a man answering to the description had walked out, turned towards the Strand and, picking up a cab in the sight of the street cleaner, had driven off.

Baffled, and with the added bitterness that had he played boldly he might have secured at any rate a share o£ a thousand pounds, Billy walked slowly to the Embankment, cursing the folly that had induced him to throw away the fortune that was in his hands. With hands thrust deep into his pockets, he tramped the weary length of the Embankment, going over again and again the incidents of the night and each time muttering a lurid condemnation of his error. It must have been an hour after he had lost Poiccart that it occurred to him all was not lost. He had the man's description, he had looked at his face, he knew him feature by feature. That was something, at any rate. Nay, it occurred to him that if the man was arrested through his description he would still be entitled to the reward--or a part of it. He dared not see Falmouth and tell him that he had been in company with the man all night without effecting his arrest. Falmouth would never believe him, and, indeed, it was curious that he should have met him.

This fact struck Billy for the first time. By what strange chance had he met this man? Was it possible--the idea frightened Marks--that the man he had robbed had recognised him, and that he had deliberately sought him out with murderous intent?

A cold perspiration broke upon the narrow forehead of the thief. These men were murderers, cruel, relentless murderers: suppose----?

He turned from the contemplation of the unpleasant possibilities to meet a man who was crossing the road towards him. He eyed the stranger doubtingly. The newcomer was a young-looking man, clean-shaven, with sharp features and restless blue eyes. As he came closer, Marks noted that first appearance had been deceptive; the man was not so young as he looked. He might have been forty, thought Marks. He approached, looked hard at Billy, then beckoned him to stop, for Billy was walking away.

"Is your name Marks?" asked the stranger authoritatively.

"Yes, sir," replied the thief.

"Have you seen Mr Falmouth?"

"Not since last night," replied Marks in surprise.

"Then you are to come at once to him."

"Where is he?"

"At Kensington Police Station--there has been an arrest, and he wants you to identify the man."

Billy's heart sank.

"Do I get any of the reward?" he demanded, "that is if I recognise 'im?"

The other nodded and Billy's hopes rose.

"You must follow me," said the newcomer, "Mr Falmouth does not wish us to be seen together. Take a first-class ticket to Kensington and get into the next carriage

to mine--come."

He turned and crossed the road toward Charing Cross, and Billy followed at a distance.

He found the stranger pacing the platform and gave no sign of recognition. A train pulled into the station and Marks followed his conductor through a crowd of workmen the train had discharged. He entered an empty first-class carriage, and Marks, obeying instructions, took pos session of the adjoining compartment, and found himself the solitary occupant.

Between Charing Cross and Westminster Marks had time to review his position. Between the last station and St James's Park, he invented his excuses to the detective; between the Park and Victoria he had completed his justification for a share of the reward. Then as the train moved into the tunnel for its five minutes' run to Sloane Square, Billy noticed a draught, and turned his head to see the stranger standing on the footboard of the swaying carriage, holding the half-opened door.

Marks was startled.

"Pull up the window on your side," ordered the man, and Billy, hypnotised by the authoritative voice, obeyed. At that moment he heard the tinkle of broken glass.

He turned with an angry snarl.

"What's the game?" he demanded.

For answer the stranger swung himself clear of the door and, closing it softly, disappeared.

"What's his game?" repeated Marks drowsily. Looking down he saw a broken phial at his feet, by the phial lay a shining sovereign. He stared stupidly at it for a moment, then, just before the train ran into Victoria Station, he stooped to pick it up. . . .

A passenger leisurely selecting his compartment during the wait at Kensington opened a carriage door and staggered back coughing. A solicitous porter and an alarmed station official ran forward and pulled open the door, and the sickly odour of almonds pervaded the station.

A little knot of passengers gathered and peered over one another's shoulders, whilst the station inspector investigated. By and by came a doctor, and a stretcher, and a policeman from the street without.

Together they lifted the huddled form of a dead man from the carriage and laid it on the platform.

"Did you find anything?" asked the policeman.

"A sovereign and a broken bottle," was the reply.

The policeman fumbled in the dead man's pockets.

"I don't suppose he'll have any papers to show who he is," he said with knowledge. "Here's a first-class ticket --it must be a case of suicide. Here's a card----"

He turned it over and read it, and his face underwent a change.

He gave a few hurried instructions, then made his way to the nearest telegraph office.

Superintendent Falmouth, who had snatched a few hours' sleep at the Downing Street house, rose with a troubled mind and an uneasy feeling that in spite of all his precautions the day would end disastrously. He was hardly dressed before the arrival of the Assistant Commissioner was announced.

"I have your report, Falmouth," was the official's greeting; "you did perfectly right to release Marks--have you had news of him this morning?"

"No."

"H'm," said the Commissioner thoughtfully. "I wonder whether----" He did not finish his sentence. "Has it occurred to you that the Four may have realised their danger?"

The detective's face showed surprise.

"Why, of course, sir."

"Have you considered what their probable line of action will be ?"

"N--no--unless it takes the form of an attempt to get out of the country."

"Has it struck you that whilst this man Marks is looking for them, they are probably seeking him?"

"Bill is smart," said the detective uneasily.

"So are they," said the Commissioner with an emphatic nod. "My advice is, get in touch with Marks and put two of your best men to watch him."

"That shall be done at once," replied Falmouth; "I am afraid that it is a precaution that should have been taken before."

"I am going to see Sir Philip," the Commissioner went on, and he added with a dubious smile, "I shall be obliged to frighten him a little."

"What is the idea?"

"We wish him to drop this Bill. Have you seen the morning papers?"

"No, sir."

"They are unanimous that the Bill should be abandoned--they say because it is not sufficiently important to warrant the risk, that the country itself is divided on its merit; but as a matter o£ fact they are afraid of the consequence; and upon my soul I'm a little afraid too."

He mounted the stairs, and was challenged at the landing by one of his subordinates.

This was a system introduced after the episode of the disguised 'detective'. The Foreign Minister was now in a state of siege. Nobody had to be trusted, a password had been initiated, and every precaution taken to ensure against a repetition of the previous mistake.

His hand was raised to knock upon the panel of the study, when he felt his arm gripped. He turned to see Falmouth with white face and startled eyes.

"They've finished Billy," said the detective breathlessly. "He has just been found in a railway carriage at Kensington."

The Commissioner whistled.

"How was it done ?" he asked.

Falmouth was the picture of haggard despair.

"Prussic acid gas," he said bitterly; "they are scientific. Look you, sir, persuade this man to drop his damned Bill."

He pointed to the door of Sir Philip's room. "We shall never save him. I have got the feeling in my bones that he is a doomed man."

"Nonsense!" the Commissioner answered sharply.

"You are growing nervous--you haven't had enough sleep, Falmouth. That isn't spoken like your real self-- we
must
save him."

He turned from the study and beckoned one of die officers who guarded the landing.

"Sergeant, tell Inspector Collins to send an emergency call throughout the area for reserves to gather immediately. I will put such a cordon round Ramon today," he went on addressing Falmouth, "that no man shall reach him without the fear of being crushed to death."

And within an hour there was witnessed in London a scene that has no parallel in the history of the Metropolis. From every district there came a small army of policemen. They arrived by train, by tramway car, by motorbus, by every vehicle and method of traction that could be requisitioned or seized. They streamed from the stations, they poured through the thoroughfares, till London stood aghast at the realisation of the strength of her civic defences.

Whitehall was soon packed from end to end; St James's Park was black with them. Automatically Whitehall, Charles Street, Birdcage Walk, and the eastern end of the Mall were barred to all traffic by solid phalanxes of mounted constables. St George's Street was in the hands of the force, the roof of every house was occupied by a uniformed man. Not a house or room that overlooked in the slightest degree the Foreign Secretary's residence but was subjected to a rigorous search. It was as though martial law had been proclaimed, and indeed two regiments of Guards were under arms the whole of the day ready for any emergency. In Sir Philip's room the Commissioner, backed by Falmouth, made his last appeal to the stubborn man whose life was threatened.

"I tell you, sir," said the Commissioner earnestly, "we can do no more than we have done, and I am still afraid. These men affect me as would something supernatural. I have a horrible dread that for all our precautions we have left something out of our reckoning; that we are leaving unguarded some avenue which by their devilish ingenuity they may utilise. The death of this man Marks has unnerved me--the Four are ubiquitous as well as omnipotent. I beg of you, sir, for God's sake, think well before you finally reject their terms. Is the passage of this Bill so absolutely necessary?"--he paused--"is it worth your life?" he asked with blunt directness; and the crudity of the question made Sir Philip wince.

He waited some time before he replied, and when he spoke his voice was low and firm.

"I shall not withdraw," he said slowly, with a dull, dogged evenness of tone. "I shall not withdraw in any circumstance.

"I have gone too far," he went on, raising his hand to check Falmouth's appeal. "I have got beyond fear, I have even got beyond resentment; it is now to me a question of justice. Am I right in introducing a law that will remove from this country colonies of dangerously intelligent criminals, who, whilst enjoying immunity from arrest, urge ignorant men forward to commit acts of violence and treason ? If I am right, the Four Just Men are wrong. Or are they right: is this measure an unjust thing, an act of tyranny, a piece of barbarism dropped into the very centre of twentieth-century thought, an anachronism ? If these men are right, then I am wrong. So it has come to this, that I have to satisfy my mind as to the standard of right and wrong that I must accept--and I accept my own."