Elk 01 The Fellowship of the Frog (13 page)

Elk looked at his watch: it wanted five minutes of one. Hagn had not returned—a circumstance which irritated the detective and was a source of uneasiness to Dick Gordon. The merriment again worked up to its highest point, when the two men rose from the table and strolled toward the door. A waiter came after them hurriedly.

“Monsieur has not paid his bill.”

“We will pay that later,” said Dick, and at that moment the hands of the clock pointed to the hour.

Precisely five minutes later the club was in the hands of the police. By 1.15 it was empty, save for the thirty raiding detectives and the staff.

“Where is Hagn?” Dick asked the chief waiter.

“He has gone home, monsieur,” said the man sullenly. “He always goes home early.”

“That’s a lie,” said Elk. “Show me to his room.” Hagn’s office was in the basement, a part of the old mission hall that had remained untouched. They were shown to a large, windowless cubicle, comfortably furnished, which was Hagn’s private bureau, but the man had disappeared. Whilst his subordinates were searching for the books and examining, sheet by sheet, the documents in the clerk’s office, Elk made an examination of the room. In one corner was a small safe, upon which he put the police seal; and lying on a sofa in some disorder was a suit of clothes, evidently discarded in a hurry. Elk looked at them, carried them under the ceiling light, and examined them. It was the suit Hagn had been wearing when he had shown them to their seats.

“Bring in that head waiter,” said Elk.

The head waiter either wouldn’t or couldn’t give information.

“Mr. Hagn always changes his clothes before he goes home,” he said.

“Why did he go before the club was closed?”

The man shrugged his shoulders.

“I don’t know anything about his private affairs,” he said, and Elk dismissed him.

Against the wall was a dressing-table and a mirror, and on each side of the mirror stood a small table-lamp, which differed from other table-lamps in that it was not shaded. Elk turned the switch, and in the glaring light scrutinized the table. Presently he found two wisps of hair, and held them against the sleeve of his black coat. In the drawer he found a small bottle of spirit gum, and examined the brush. Then he picked up a little wastepaper basket and turned its contents upon the table. He found a few torn bills, business letters, a tradesman’s advertisement, three charred cigarette ends, and some odd scraps of paper. One of these was covered with gum and stuck together.

“I reckon he wiped the brush on this,” said Elk, and with some difficulty pulled the folded slip apart.

It was typewritten, and consisted of three lines:

“Urgent. See Seven at E.S.2. No raid. Get M.‘s statement. Urgent. F.1.”

Dick took the paper from his subordinate’s hand and read it.

“He’s wrong about the no raid,” he said. “E. S., of course, is Eldor Street, arid two is either the number two or two o’clock.”

“Who’s ‘M.’?” asked Elk, frowning.

“Obviously Mills—the man we caught at Wandsworth. He made a written statement, didn’t he?”

“He has signed one,” said Elk thoughtfully.

He turned the papers over, and after a while found what he was looking for—a small envelope. It was addressed in typewritten characters to “G. V. Hagn,” and bore on the back the stamp of the District Messenger service.

The staff were still held by the police, and Elk sent for the doorkeeper.

“What time was this delivered?” he asked.

The man was an ex-soldier, the only one of the prisoners who seemed to feel his position.

“It came at about nine o’clock, sir,” he said readily, and produced the letter-book in confirmation. “It was brought by a District Messenger boy,” he explained unnecessarily.

“Does Mr. Hagn get many notes by District Messenger?”

“Very few, sir,” said the doorkeeper, and added an anxious inquiry as to his own fate.

“You can go,” said Elk. “Under escort,” he added, “to your own home. You’re not to communicate with anybody, or tell any of the servants here that I have made inquiries about this letter. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

To make assurance doubly sure, Elk had called up exchange and placed a ban upon all ‘phone communications. It was now a quarter to two, and, leaving half-a-dozen detectives in charge of the club, he got the remainder on to the car that had brought them, and, accompanied by Dick, went full speed for Tottenham.

Within a hundred yards of Eldor Street the car stopped and unloaded. The first essential was that whoever was meeting No. 7 in Eldor Street should not be warned of their approach. It was more than possible that Frog scouts would be watching at each end of the street.

“I don’t know why they should,” said Elk, when Dick put this possibility forward.

“I can give you one very excellent reason,” said Dick quietly. “It is this: that the Frogs know all about your previous visit to Maitland’s slum residence.”

“What makes you think that?” asked Elk in surprise, but Dick did not enlighten him.

Sending the men round by circuitous routes, he went forward with Elk, and at the very corner of Eldor Street, Elk found that his chief’s surmise was well founded. Under a lamp-post Elk saw the dim figure of a man standing, and instantly began an animated and raucous conversation concerning a mythical Mr. Brown. Realizing that this was intended for the watcher, Gordon joined in. The man under the lamp-post hesitated just a little too long. As they came abreast of him, Elk turned.

“Have you got a match?” he asked.

“No,” growled the other, and the next instant was on the ground, with Elk’s knee on his chest and the detective’s bony hand around his throat.

“Shout, Frog, and I’ll throttle you,” hissed the detective ferociously.

There was no scuffle, no sound. The thing was done so quickly that, if there were other watchers in the street, they could not have known what had happened, or have received any warning from their comrade’s fate. The man was in the hands of the following detective, gagged and handcuffed, and on his way to the police car, before he knew exactly what tornado had struck him.

“Do you mind if I sing?” said Elk as they turned into the street on the opposite side to that where Mr. Maitland’s late residence was situated.

Without waiting permission Elk broke into song. His voice was thin and flat. As a singer, he was a miserable failure, and Dick Gordon had never in his life listened with so much patience to sounds more hideous. But there would be watchers at each end of the street, he thought, and soon saw that Elk’s precautions were necessary.

Again it was in the shadow of a street lamp that the sentinel stood—a tall, thickset man, more conscientious in the discharge of his duties than his friend, for Dick saw something glittering in his mouth, and knew that it was a whistle.

“Give me the world for a wishing well,” wailed Elk, staggering slightly, “Say that my dre-em will come true…”

And as he sang he made appropriate gestures. His outflung hand caught the whistle and knocked it from the man’s mouth, and in a second the two sprang at him and flung him face downward on the pavement. Elk pulled his prisoner’s cap over his mouth; something black and shiny flashed before the sentry’s eyes, and a cold, circular instrument was thrust against the back of his ear.

“If you make a sound, you’re a dead Frog,” said Elk; and that portion of his party which had made the circuit coming up at that moment, he handed his prisoner over and replaced his fountain-pen in his pocket.

“Everything now depends upon whether the gentleman who is patrolling the passage between the gardens has witnessed this disgusting fracas,” said Elk, dusting himself. “If he was standing at the entrance to the passage he has seen it, and there’s going to be trouble.”

Apparently the patrol was in the alleyway itself and had heard no sound. Creeping to the entrance, Elk listened and presently heard the soft pad of footsteps. He signalled to Dick to remain where he was, and slipped into the passage, walking softly, but not so softly that the man on guard at the back gate of Mr. Maitland’s house did not hear him.

“Who’s that?” he demanded in a gruff voice.

“It’s me,” whispered Elk. “Don’t make so much noise.”

“You’re not supposed to be here,” said the other in a tone of authority. “I told you to stay under the lamp-post—”

Elk’s eyes had grown accustomed to the darkness, and now he saw his man.

“There are two queer-looking people in the street: I wanted you to see them,” he whispered.

All turned now upon the discipline which the Frogs maintained.

“Who are they?” asked the unknown in a low voice.

“A man and a woman,” whispered Elk.

“I don’t suppose they’re anybody important,” grumbled the other.

In his youth Elk had played football; and, measuring the distance as best he could, he dropped suddenly and tackled low. The man struck the earth with a jerk which knocked all the breath out of his body and made him incapable of any other sound than the involuntary gasp which followed his knock-out. In a second Elk was on him, his bony knee on the man’s throat.

“Pray, Frog,” he whispered in the man’s ear, “but don’t shout!”

The stricken man was incapable of shouting, and was still breathless when willing hands threw him into the patrol wagon.

“We’ll have to go the back way, boys,” said Elk in a whisper.

This time his task was facilitated by the fact that the garden gate was not locked. The door into the scullery was, however, but there was a window, the catch of which Elk forced noiselessly. He had pulled off his boots and was in his stockinged feet, and he sidled along the darkened passage. Apparently none of the dilapidated furniture had been removed from the house, for he felt the small table that had stood in the hall on his last visit. Gently turning the handle of Maitland’s room, he pushed.

The door was open, the room in darkness and empty. Elk came back to the scullery.

“There’s nobody here on the ground floor,” he said. “We’ll try upstairs.”

He was half-way up when he heard the murmur of voices and stopped. Raising his eyes to the level of the floor, he saw a crack of light under the doorway of the front room—the apartment which had been occupied by Maitland’s housekeeper. He listened, but could distinguish no consecutive words. Then, with a bound, he took the remaining stairs in three strides, flew along the landing, and flung himself upon the door. It was locked. At the sound of his footsteps the light inside went out. Twice he threw himself with all his weight at the frail door, and at the third attempt it crashed in.

“Hands up, everybody!” he shouted.

The room was in darkness, and there was a complete silence. Crouching down in the doorway, he flung the gleam of his electric torch into the room. It was empty!

His officers came crowding in at his heels, the lamp on the table was relit—the glass chimney was hot—and a search was made of the room. It was too small to require a great deal of investigation. There was a bed, under which it was possible to hide, but they drew blank in this respect. At one end of the room near the bed was a wardrobe, which was filled with old dresses suspended from hangers.

“Throw out those clothes,” ordered Elk. “There must be a door there into the next house.”

A glance at the window showed him that it was impossible for the inmates of the room to have escaped that way. Presently the clothes were heaped on the floor, and the detectives were attacking the wooden back of the wardrobe, which did, in fact, prove to be a door leading into the next house. Whilst they were so engaged, Dick made a scrutiny of the table, which was littered with papers. He saw something and called Elk.

“What is this, Elk?”

The detective took the four closely-typed sheets of paper from his hand.

“Mills’ confession,” he said in amazement. “There are only two copies, one of which I have, and the other is in the possession of your department, Captain Gordon.”

At this moment the wardrobe backing was smashed in, and the detectives were pouring through to the next house.

And then it was that they made the interesting discovery that, to all intents and purposes, communication was continuous between a block of ten houses that ran to the end of the street. And they were not untenanted. Three typical Frogs occupied the first room into which they burst. They found others on the lower floor; and it soon became clear that the whole of the houses comprising the end block had been turned into a sleeping place for the recruits of Frogdom. Since any one of these might have been No. 7, they were placed under arrest.

All the communicating doors were now opened. Except in the case of Maitland’s house, no attempt had been made to camouflage the entrances, which in the other houses consisted of oblong apertures, roughly cut through the brick party walls.

“We may have got him, but I doubt it,” said Elk, coming back, breathless and grimy, to where Dick was examining the remainder of the documents which he had found. “I haven’t seen any man who looks like owning brains.”

“Nobody has escaped from the block?”

Elk shook his head.

“My men are in the passage and the street. In addition, the uniformed police are here. Didn’t you hear the whistle?” Elk’s assistant reported at that moment.

“A man has been found in one of the back yards, sir,” he said. “I’ve taken the liberty of relieving the constable of his prisoner. Would you like to see him?”

“Bring him up,” said Elk, and a few minutes later a handcuffed man was pushed into the room.

He was above medium height; his hair was fair and long, his yellow beard was trimmed to a point.

For a moment Dick looked at him wonderingly, and then:

“Carlo, I think?” he said.

“Hagn, I’m sure!” said Elk. “Get those whiskers off, you Frog, and we’ll talk numbers, beginning with seven!”