第 8 页

The third case was the most sensational of all from the public point of view. The hangman who executed Shelton was William Wallis, who was the chief assistant public executioner. Wallis, between hangings, followed the calling of a shoe repairer. He had a little basement shop outside Oldham, and was a man of low mentality, who sometimes drank a little more than was good for him, but otherwise was a very respectable citizen. Wallis was a picture fan: twice a week he was in the habit of visiting the local Rialto, and usually he went alone. He was a single man who lived with an invalid mother. He was returning from one of these jaunts on the Christmas Eve following the death of Shelton, when he fell in with a crony, Herbert Starr, a machine operative, who was an authority on whippet racing, a sport in which Wallis also indulged. They called in at a public house and had a couple of drinks before resuming their walk. Snow was falling heavily and they had the greater part of a mile to go. Early the next morning Police-Constable Bently, of the Lancashire Constabulary, rode along the strip of lonely road which separates Oldham from the village where Wallis and his friend lived. He was passing an allotment when he saw two snow heaps of queer shape and, dismounting, turned the covering over with his foot and found first Starr and then the hangman. They were both dead. A half-empty whisky bottle bearing the label of a well-known distiller lay between them, and the theory was that they had got drunk and had been overcome by the storm. The whisky was analyzed— it was just whisky. There was no trace of poisoning— in this case the jury found a verdict of "Death from Misadventure."

Betcher was on the spot in six hours after the discovery. Three facts came to light. The first of these was that the whisky had not been purchased at the public house where the men had made their call, nor was it in their possession then: Wallis had asked the landlord to supply him with a bottle, but the host, knowing the man and seeing that he was already lit up, had refused. The second fact was that the cork had been removed on the place where the bodies were found, and neither of the men had a corkscrew. The third was not discovered until some time after. A jobbing shoemaker bought up Wallis's kit of tools, pricked his finger with an awl, and a week later showed symptoms of tetanus. Betcher collected the tools and sent them for examination. Almost every instrument was in a poisonous state.

He himself had had two narrow escapes from death. Once in a dentist's chair, once at the hands of a racecourse gang. But who substituted for the cylinder of dental gas one identical in shape and description, filled with the deadliest vapour known to science? And how did the Terrible People know that the dentist would use that cylinder on his first patient that morning? The chemical company which prepared the gas was baffled; the dentist could only explain that the cylinder he intended to use had inexplicably run out, and he had to employ the spare supply which he kept for emergency.

And when the race-boys lay in wait for him at Paddington, who told them that he was the man who "shopped" Tilini, their polyglot leader? They themselves did not know— they spoke vaguely of a message which had come out of jail from Tilini telling them to "get" Long. The attack ended abruptly, and, for one member of the gang, unpleasantly. Betcher had a terrible left hook and he used a knuckleduster to make sure.

The country knew nothing of these happenings, seeing in the death of the judge no more than nature's exaction, and in the killing of the famous counsel one of those deplorable accidents which occur almost every day of the week. The death of Wallis created a mild sensation, but none saw in this an act of vengeance.

Macfarlane pulled at his gray moustache, a moody frown on his face, as, for the third time in a week, Inspector Arnold Long recited the fate that had overtaken the three men instrumental in bringing Clay Shelton to his death.

"I'll admit there is a possibility that you are right," he said at last, "and if Joshua Monkford is killed, my last doubt will go."

Betcher looked at him a little resentfully.

"Am I to understand, sir, that Mr. Monkford must die to bring conviction to Scotland Yard?"

It was the sort of comment that made Betcher so very unpopular with his superiors.

"Of course not!" snapped the Colonel. "And it is your job to see that he doesn't die! You have taken every precaution?"

"I have two officers at Marlow, and those two private detectives engaged by the Bankers' Association," said Betcher, "but it isn't at Marlow that the danger lies."

"Where, then?"

"At Little Heartsease," said Long, and went on to enlighten the chief. "Little Heartsease is a sort of road club— in reality, a country hotel. It is run by a man named Cravel, and is the last word in comfort."

The name was not unfamiliar to the Colonel.

"Isn't there a golf tournament connected with this establishment?" he asked.

Betcher nodded.

"The swellest in England," he said. "It is the Ascot of golf— an excuse for house parties and pretty dresses. Monkford doesn't know a tee from a brassie, and hundreds of other people who attend know as much; it is largely a social function. I shall be there, wearing my new plus fours and a look of resignation. For it is at Heartsease that Monkford will be in danger. Don't ask me why, sir, because I don't know. I've a hunch, and a hunch is worth a volume of exact information."

Macfarlane studied his blotting pad for a while, and then:

"There is one peculiar feature about Clay Shelton; I don't know whether it's occurred to you, Long," he said slowly.

"What is that, sir?" asked Betcher, prepared to hear something commonplace.

"He never robbed your father."

Betcher stared at him.

"Why, neither did he!" said he, in wonder.

His father was head of one of the biggest banking corporations in the city, and one, moreover, run on old-fashioned lines. Getting money out of the Western & Somerset was rather like taking money from a blind beggar.

"That is certainly queer," he said.

Macfarlane had performed the seemingly impossible. He had given his subordinate something to think about.

Chapter 12

BETCHER, after his interview with the chief, took a taxicab to Berkeley Square. He had not made half a dozen visits to his father in the past twelve months, and Sir Godley, whose recreation was the Italian Renaissance, was correcting the pages of his monograph on Savonarola when Arnold stalked into the little library. His father took off his glasses and surveyed him with an air of mild interest.

"Is this a police visitation or an act of filial piety?" he asked.

"Neither," said Betcher gloomily, as he opened the silver box on the table and dubiously examined the Corona he extracted. "Is this a real cigar or is it one you keep for your friends?"

"You're an ungrateful devil," said Sir Godley, leaning back in his chair. "The value of two of those cigars would represent your day's pay."

"Are you a member of the Bankers' Association?" asked Betcher, as he pulled up a chair to the writing table.

"Why?"

"Answer my question," said Betcher severely.

"The bank, of course, is in the Association, but I have no official position. Weldon represents us. Anyway, I couldn't serve on a committee with Monkford: he is too wearing."

"Have you ever heard of the Terrible People?" asked Betcher.

"I've heard of many terrible people; to which particular lot do you refer? You don't mean the gang you wrote about?"

Betcher nodded.

"No, I've not heard of them. Shelton, of course, I knew by repute, but he never took a penny from my bank. Do you seriously think that Monkford is in danger?"

"I seriously think he's a dead man," said Betcher, so soberly that his father was startled. "Will you be frank with me?"

"I'll try."

Betcher was silent for a moment, and then:

"Why did Clay Shelton never try to catch your bank?"

Sir Godley frowned.

"I don't quite understand your slang. What do you mean by 'catch my bank'? Rob it?" And when Betcher nodded: "I don't know." His tone was not wholly convincing. "I suppose he didn't think we were big enough game for him."

He turned the conversation abruptly.

"Arnold," he said, "if you think there is danger from the Terrible People, as you call them, why on earth don't you quit? There's absolutely no reason why you should continue in your present profession any longer. You have had your amusement— I suppose it is an amusing job— and now that I can offer you a really good position in the bank—"

He met his son's steady glance and stopped.

"That is the second big offer you've made to me in the past year," said Betcher slowly. "When I told you that I was going after Clay Shelton, a little more than a year ago, you offered me ten thousand a year to take charge of your South American branch. You were almost as anxious that I should quit then as you are now— why?"

Sir Godley did not meet his eyes. Instead, he laughed as though he were amused at something, but there was an uneasiness in his assumed merriment.

"What a suspicious beggar you are!" he said. "Police work has completely spoilt your faith in humanity! Ring the bell, Arnold: I want a drink."

There the conversation drifted to minor matters, and they talked no more about Clay Shelton or the Terrible People. It was nearly midnight when Betcher Long strolled out into Berkeley Square, and his father accompanied him to the door.

His house was on the west side of the square. The traffic, taking a short cut through Grosvenor Square to Oxford Street, was almost continuous along the east side.

"You had better wait till I 'phone for a taxi," said his father, surveying the deserted street, and Betcher laughed.

"The best argument you have offered to induce me to leave the force is the fact that you seem to be getting nervy, my parent!" he said.

He waited till the door was closed, then strolled toward Oxford Street. Across the central gardens he could see the lights of cars and taxis passing north and south, but the sidewalk along which he strolled was empty.

He had gone fifty yards when he saw somebody running swiftly toward him, and by the light of a street lamp he saw it was a woman and wondered what was her hurry. And then— Plop!

The bullet came unpleasantly near. Somebody was shooting through a Maxim silencer. He saw a man standing in the roadway. Was he shooting at the woman? The answer was very convincing. The bullet struck the railings not a foot from where he stood, and ricocheted off, humming and buzzing like an angry wasp. In a second he had whipped out his Browning, without which he never went abroad in these days, but before he could raise the gun the woman, gasping and breathless, had reached him and flung herself into his arms.

"Save me, save me!" she gasped. "The Terrible People— the Terrible People!"

Chapter 13

THE man in the roadway had disappeared as though he had been swallowed up in the night. Betcher dropped his gun into his coat pocket and lifted the half-fainting girl in his arms. He heard somebody call behind him, and, turning, saw his father and a footman coming toward him.

"What has happened?"

"A little promiscuous shooting, I think," said Betcher. "Help me get this girl into the house."

Together they supported the swooning woman up the steps and into Sir Godley's study. She was rather pretty, though her features were strong and a little coarse, and, looking at her, Betcher Long was puzzled. He had seen her before somewhere, and he strove vainly to place her. Presently, she opened her eyes and looked wildly round, staring from Long to his father.

"Where am I?" she asked. The colour had come back to her cheeks, but she was still shaking.

And now the detective recognized her. She was the girl he had seen in the punt, talking to Jackson Crayley. She was in evening dress of a fashionable and expensive cut. There was a large diamond bar across the tightly fitting bodice, and her fingers blazed with gems.

"I don't know what has happened," she said, a little shakily, when he questioned her. "Only I saw those—" She shuddered.

It was not until they had forced a little wine between her chattering teeth that she was sufficiently recovered to tell her extraordinary story. She and her brother were the proprietors of a country hotel. They had a small flat in John Street, where they stayed when they came up to town. She had been to a theatre, and, the night being fine, she had decided to walk home alone, and had reached the end of Berkeley Square when she saw a car drawn up by the side of the road. As she came level, the door of the car opened and two men sprang out.

"They had white cloths over their faces," she said, "and I was so terrified that I couldn't move or offer any resistance, until they tried to push me into the car."

And then a third man had appeared from nowhere who had said: "You fools, that is not Nora Sanders—"

"Nora Sanders?" said Betcher quickly. "Are you sure of the name?"

The girl nodded.

"The man who held me was so surprised that he released my arms and I ran. I heard someone say 'Get her,' and then I heard a shot, and that is all I remember."

Save for the interruption forced by his surprise, the detective listened in silence to the narrative.

"I have seen you before. You are Miss—"

"Alice Cravel," she said. "My brother and I are proprietors of Little Heartsease."

"Little Heartsease!" Betcher Long stared at her in amazement.

"You are sure they said Nora Sanders?"

"Perfectly sure," said the girl emphatically.

"Do you know her?" And, to his surprise, she nodded.

"I know her by name. She is secretary to Miss Revelstoke, who usually comes to Little Heartsease for the big week. In fact, she's coming next Monday. I don't know her well, but she was at Heartsease last year; rather a pretty girl."

Betcher bit his lip thoughtfully.

"What theatre were you at to-night?" he asked, and she replied without hesitation, naming a well-known playhouse.