第 21 页

"Let 'em go," said Long, with a wicked smile. "And you fellows watch out. I'll be waiting for you on the mat."

The chinless man turned, obviously uncomfortable.

"We've spilt all we know, Mr. Long," he said, more respectfully. "We had this job from an old fellow who was trying to scare you, and—"

"Aw, shut up!" said the other. "You talk too much!"

There were many things about the Terrible People which puzzled Betcher Long, but none quite so much as the mysterious communication which existed between some one of the Terrible People and the lowest dregs of the underworld. As for the "old fellow," who was also called "the professor," he gave little credence to what he regarded as a clumsy invention.

The Terrible People themselves were a class apart. They were too clever to attach to them the drab creatures without honour, without faith, who stream through the police courts or the Old Bailey year in and year out, go their long and dreary way to Dartmoor and return again for a brief spell of liberty before they tramp again their via dolorosa.

There is no honour amongst thieves. Betrayal can be had for the price of a good dinner. They know no masters but their own appetites, no loyalty save that which fear inspires.

Who was the liaison officer? To that question he could find no answer. Whoever it was must be in a position to meet the lower world in its own environment without creating suspicion or attracting the attention of the watchful police. Supposing Mr. Henry were that kind of man, he, as a lawyer, would be in a favourable position. But he was without a criminal practice; indeed, he had little dealing with the common law, his practice being mostly in the Chancery Court.

Rouch, for all his deficiencies, was an authority on one subject, the low thief. He knew every little crook in London; had their family histories by heart— for he possessed a wonderful memory, and was mildly interested in their reformation. When Betcher approached him on the subject, he shook his head.

"I don't know," he confessed. "If there was any of that funny business going on, the organization of criminals into gangs, the same as you read about in books, I should have known years ago. But hooks work on their own, and the only gangs I know are the scrapping gangs of Hoxton, a few big cracksmen, and the race-track crowds."

Though he was discouraged, Betcher pursued his inquiries; sent two men, one to Deptford and one to Notting Dale (the East End and Limehouse as hotbeds of criminality exist only in the fertile imaginations of writers), and these he reinforced with a small army of police informers, those stool pigeons without whose assistance police work would falter in its stride.

When he got home to his flat that night a letter was awaiting him. There was no need to look at the postmark. Scrawled in neat characters on the envelope's flap were the words "Little Heartsease, Berkshire," and he recognized the handwriting of Mr. Cravel.

He opened the letter. It was typewritten and dictated.

DEAR MR. LONG:

As you may well suppose, the season has ended rather disastrously for us. But Mr. Monkford was so good a friend of ours that his death overshadows all my personal disappointment. I wonder if you would be interested in a theory of mine which may seem fantastic? If you would care to come down somewhere about the 16th, when I shall be back at Heartsease, I should like to talk the matter over with you.

Betcher grinned. August 16th! It was the proverbial invitation of the spider, and he determined to walk into the trap. Perhaps "the professor" would be there to welcome him.

He folded the letter and put it away in a drawer of his desk; but though he was smiling, he was not especially amused. The date on the panel— the date in the letter. The blatant openness of it could have only one meaning. The date had been carved, the invitation issued, to fix his mind upon a date and to give him a false sense of security until the sixteenth dawned. Between the sixteenth and that moment lay the period of danger. Every morning must dawn a day of doom— a prospect which was not pleasant. The Gallows Hand that had stretched out to hold him and brought low the humble hangman, that had struck at the judge, had slain the counsel, and had killed the banker whose ingenuity had trapped Clay Shelton, was reaching for him, to pull him down at that very second! So intent was he upon the reality of danger that, when his servant tapped at the door, he jumped.

"Phew!" said Betcher, impressed with his own nervousness. "I'm getting wrong! Come in!" And in that command he invited danger, covert and overt, and stiffened himself to meet whatever fate held for him.

His valet came into the room and, closing the door behind, lowered his voice.

"Will you see Miss Alice Cravel, sir?" he asked.

Chapter 33

BETCHER nodded. "Show the lady in," he said, and presently Alice Cravel came into the room. She was, as usual, beautifully dressed. Betcher knew a great deal about women's fashions, and he realized that the two-piece dress she wore must have cost a great deal more money than many rich women could afford. But it was not her dress which arrested his attention; she was a different Alice from the laughing girl he had seen at Heartsease. Her face was hard and pale; she looked as though she had not slept for a week. She stared at him in silence until the sergeant had left the room.

"No, thank you, I'll stand."

He remarked the same quality in the voice as in the face. Evidently life was not running smoothly for Miss Alice Cravel, and the change in her could not be wholly explained by the disaster which had robbed Little Heartsease of its handsome profits.

Her first words were startling enough.

"Are you very fond of life?" she asked.

"Pretty fond."

He had an eye for her gloved hands, which were folded before her, and from which dangled a golden-meshed bag.

"So was Crayley," she said, staring at him.

Her manner was so strange that he thought she had been drinking, or worse.

"Jackson Crayley loved life— he seemed a fool to you. You thought his flower garden was an affectation and that he wasn't interested in it. But the colour of it, the scent of it, made life worth living. Jackson loved pretty things."

He waited expectantly, and all the time he was watching her hands.

"I suppose there is something that you love in life— besides putting people into prison and— and on the gallows? Perhaps you love pretty things, too? You like to see the sun rise and set— and the flowers— and the spring " Her voice trembled, and it was with an effort that she regained control.

"Yes, I love pretty things, and I hate ugly things," said Betcher Long bluntly.

He stood squarely before her, his hands in his jacket pocket, his head bent a little forward, for she was much shorter than he.

"I love the things that are good, and I loathe the things that are bad. Is that abnormal?"

She shook her head.

"No. But Jackie felt the same way," she said in a low voice. "And now he's dead— dead!" She covered her eyes with one gloved hand, and swayed a little so that he thought she was about to fall and pulled a chair for her.

"No, no, I don't want that," she said impatiently. "And I'll tell you another thing I don't want, Betcher Long. I hate you!" Her voice was almost inaudible, but he did not question her hate; it blazed in her eyes, the straight line of her lips was an emphasis. "I hate you! You don't know how I hate you! But I don't want you dead— do you believe that? I— don't— want— you— dead!"

She hammered her little hand on the table with every word.

"I want you to live— live, do you hear? I'm tired of it, sick of it! The smell of blood is in my nostrils all the time." Her arms went out wildly; he thought she was going to break into hysteria. But again she caught hold of her emotions.

"There's no reason why I want you to live, except that. I'm tired of dead men and their ghosts and the things they used to wear and do and look."

She screwed up her eyes tight with an expression of intense anguish.

"Will you get out of this case and go away and leave them to it, all of them?"

"Why do you want me to go? I know you've told me. But how do you think I could escape, supposing that I cleared out of the case, as you say?"

"You could go abroad for four months— for two months, for one month would be long enough."

Her bosom was rising and falling rapidly. The colour had gone from her cheeks; they were quite bloodless.

"I'll tell you something," she said breathlessly. "They nearly got you one night. I was sent along to prevent your pulling a gun. You remember the night they shot at you? And I put up that story about being kidnapped. You saw through it— I knew that when you asked me what theatre I had been to; and I don't care what you do with me. I wish to God you'd put me in prison and keep me there till everything— everything is over. I've told you, haven't I? You heard what I said? I was in the plot to murder you!"

"Who was the man?"

She jerked her head impatiently.

"I can't tell you that— you know I can't tell you. But I was in it— I— I!" She struck her bosom with her clenched hand. "Isn't that enough? Can't you take me? That's why I came. That, and to warn you."

"Who was the man?" he asked again.

"You fool, what does it matter? Why, do you think for one moment I'd tell you?"

"Was it your brother?"

"My brother was in Little Heartsease that night, you know as well as anybody; you made inquiries. The very next day you went down to see him, and you put one of your men on to question the servants and the waiters. And that didn't satisfy you; your man questioned the guests one by one."

"Henry?" he asked.

"Henry!" Her lips curled. And then she grew terribly serious again. "I risked something, coming to see you. You've been watching my hands all the while I've been here, haven't you? But three times I could have killed you. You think I am boasting, but I'm telling you no more than the truth. Some day, perhaps, I'll prove what I've said."

His face must have shown some scepticism.

"You're scared of me because I am a woman," she said, "and you'd hesitate to draw upon me. But even if I were a man, you could neither seize nor shoot."

She raised her gloved hand above her head and seemed to snap her fingers. There was a brilliant flash of light that blinded him and made him stagger back. When he opened his eyes again, he could not see her for the golden suns that danced before his eyes; and then he saw a thick white cloud of smoke rolling slowly along the ceiling.

"A magnesium flash," she said calmly. "My eyes were closed when I fired the light; yours were open. I could have shot you down like a dog if I'd wanted to. Now do you believe me?"

Arnold drew a long breath.

"You bet I believe you!" he said fervently. "That is a new one on me, Miss Cravel."

"A new one? They've hundreds of new ones," she said contemptuously. "They've bungled you three times, but they'll get you in the end, Betcher Long."

She looked at him steadily.

"I've got an honest fit to-day, and I'm going to tell you something. I'm afraid of two things: I'm afraid of their killing you, and I'm afraid of their failing! Because, if they fail, the next time you'll have them, and that will be the end of everything. Are you going to take me? I'll go down on my knees to you this minute if you'll put me behind bars. I'm not crazy, Long. I was never as sane in my life. But I'm through— through!"

He took the letter from his pocket and handed it to the girl. She had read a line or two and handed it back to him.

"I know," she said. "Are you going?"

He nodded.

"On the sixteenth?"

He nodded again.

"What do you expect?"

"Trouble," he said laconically.

"And you'll get it!" she said between her clenched teeth; "you don't know what is waiting for you at Heartsease!"

Chapter 34

THE warning chilled him, but he made no reply, watching her as she took her blackened gloves from her hands and deliberately pulled on another pair that she took from her bag.

"I can do nothing with you. That is what I was afraid of. Where's the Sanders girl?"

"In a nursing home," he said, unnecessarily, as he knew.

"She's safe there, is she?" She smiled as she asked the question.

"Pretty safe. A detective is patrolling back and front of the house, one downstairs sitting on a hard wooden chair all night."

"They'll get her if they want her."

"Betcher!" said Long.

"You'd lose."

She made as if to say something more, then changed her mind, and turning, pulled open the door, to pause on the threshold and deliver her final shot.

"Nora Sanders is very necessary to your Terrible People," she said, and her lips twitched. "Vitally necessary. You'll never guess why."

"Because they're broke," he said promptly, and he saw her expression change.

"Broke? Who told you that?" Her voice was shrill; she was genuinely astonished.

"They're broke. Somebody has been dipping into the reserve and somebody else is covering it up."

She eyed him thoughtfully, pursing her lips.

"Is that so?" she said in a low voice. "But look out for your Nora Sanders!"

Somehow he knew that she spoke the truth. Long after she had gone, he paced up and down his room, stopping now and again to watch the feeble efforts of his valet to drive the smoke through the open window. For the fumes of exploded magnesium are difficult to disperse.

Then he sat down at his blotting pad and with a pencil drew a plan of the nursing home where Nora Sanders was staying. It was true, as the girl had said, that he had made the most elaborate preparations to prevent a repetition of the outrage which had nearly ended so disastrously for the girl.

He looked at the house from every angle; supposed every possibility that he could summon. The end of the Terrible People was at hand. The gang was disintegrating before his eyes. But there was a last kick in them.