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Title: The fourth plague
Author: Edgar Wallace
Release date: September 27, 2026 [eBook #79658]
Language: English
Original publication: Garden City: Doubleday, Doran, & Company, Inc. (for the Crime Club, Inc.), 1930
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/79658
Credits: Andrés V. Galia, MaryFT and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE FOURTH PLAGUE ***
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
In the text version Italics text is denoted by _underscores_, text in
small-caps is marked in UPPERCASE.
A number of words in this book have both hyphenated and non-hyphenated
variants. For the words with both variants present the one more used
has been kept.
Obvious punctuation and other printing errors have been corrected.
* * * * *
THE FOURTH PLAGUE
BOOKS BY
[Illustration: Edgar Wallace’s signature]
A KING BY NIGHT
EDGAR WALLACE’S MAMMOTH MYSTERY BOOK
GUNMAN’S BLUFF
PEOPLE
RED ACES
TERROR KEEP
THE BLACK
THE BLACK ABBOT
THE CLEVER ONE
THE CRIMSON CIRCLE
THE DARK EYES OF LONDON
THE DOOR WITH SEVEN LOCKS
THE DOUBLE
THE FACE IN THE NIGHT
THE FEATHERED SERPENT
THE FLYING SQUAD
THE FOURTH PLAGUE
THE GIRL FROM SCOTLAND YARD
THE GREEN RIBBON
THE INDIA RUBBER MEN
THE JUST MEN OF CORDOVA
THE MURDER BOOK OF J. G. REEDER
THE NORTHING TRAMP
THE RINGER THE SQUEALER
THE TERRIBLE PEOPLE
THE THREE JUST MEN
THE TRAITORS’ GATE
THE TWISTER
EDGAR WALLACE
THE FOURTH PLAGUE
His motto was--“Don’t arrest
them--eliminate them!”
[Illustration] GARDEN CITY, N. Y. 1930 PUBLISHED FOR
THE CRIME CLUB, INC.
BY DOUBLEDAY, DORAN & COMPANY, INC.
PRINTED AT THE _Country Life Press_, GARDEN CITY, N. Y., U. S. A.
PUBLISHED, 1930
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
ALL THE CHARACTERS IN THIS
BOOK ARE FICTITIOUS
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
PROLOGUE 1
I Sir Ralph Delivers Judgment 22
II The Call of Tillizini 42
III A Hunter of Men 53
IV The Red Hand Draws Blank 64
V The Story of the Red Hand 74
VI The Three 99
VII The Golden Antonio 111
VIII The Rare Collection 123
IX Count Festini 139
X A Way of Tillizini’s 154
XI Lady Morte-Mannery Helps a Friend 173
XII The Second Medallion 190
XIII The Abduction of Marjorie 211
XIV Tillizini Leaves a Mark 226
XV The House by the River 244
XVI Tillizini Addresses the House 261
XVII Marjorie Crosses the Marsh 276
XVIII The Woman 284
XIX The Working of the Act 297
THE FOURTH PLAGUE
PROLOGUE
South of Florence by some sixty miles, and west of Rome by almost
thrice the distance, upon three hills, is Siena, the most equable of
the cities of Tuscany.
On the Terzo di Città, in I know not what _contrada_, is the Palazzo
Festini.
It stands aloof in its gloomy and dilapidated magnificence, and since
it dates from the adjacent Baptistery of S. Giovanni, it leaves the
impression of being a crumbling and disgruntled fragment of the sacred
edifice that has wandered away in sullen rage to decay at its leisure.
Here, in penurious grandeur, dwelt the Festinis, who claimed descent
from none other than Guido Novello, of whom Compagni, the arch
apologist, wrote: “_Il conte Guido non aspettò il fine, ma senza dare
colpo di spada si parti._”
The Festini was a family to the name of which the Italian nobility
listened with immobile faces. And if you chose to praise them they
would politely agree; or if you condemned them they would listen
in silence; but if you questioned them as to their standing in the
hierarchy, you might be sure that, from Rome to Milan, your inquiry
would be met by an immediate, but even, change of subject.
The Festinis, whatever might be their relationship with Guido the
Coward, effectively carried on the methods of the Polomei, the Salvani,
the Ponzi, the Piccolomini, and the Forteguerri.
The vendettas of the Middle Ages were revived and sustained by these
products of nineteenth-century civilization, and old Salvani Festini
had, as was notoriously evident, gone outside the circumscribed range
of his own family grievances and had allied himself, either actively
or sympathetically, with every secret society that menaced the good
government of Italy.
It was a hot June afternoon, in the year ’99, when a man and two youths
sat at their midday meal in the gloomy dining room of the Palazzo.
The man who sat at the head of the table was, despite his age, a
broad-shouldered man of apparent vitality; a leonine head surmounted by
a mane of gray hair would have distinguished him without the full beard
which fell over his black velvet waistcoat.
Yet, for all his patriarchal appearance, there was something in the
seamed white face, in the cold eyes which stared from under his bushy
brows, which was sinister and menacing.
He ate in silence, scarcely troubling to answer the questions which
were put to him.
The boy on his right was a beautiful lad of seventeen; he had the
ivory complexion, the perfect, clean-cut, patrician features which
characterized the Italian nobility. His lustrous brown eyes, his
delicate mouth, his almost effeminate chin, testified for the race from
which he sprang.
The young man sitting opposite was four years older. He was at the
stage when youth was merging into manhood, with disastrous consequences
to facial contours. He seemed thin, almost hollow-jawed, and only the
steady quality of his grave eyes saved him from positive ugliness.
“But, Father,” asked the younger lad, “what makes you think that the
Government suspects that you know about the Red Hand?”
The older youth said nothing, but his inquiring eyes were fixed upon
his father.
Salvani Festini brought his mind back to the present with a start.
“Eh?” he asked.
His voice was gruff but not unkindly as he addressed the boy; and the
light of unconscious pride which shone in his eyes as he looked at the
youth softened the forbidding expression of his face.
“I am very well informed, my son,” he said with a gentle growl. “You
know we have excellent information. The carbineers are pursuing their
investigations, and that infernal friend of yours”--he turned to the
elder son--“is at the head of the inquisitors.”
The youth addressed smiled.
“Who is this?” he asked innocently.
The old man shot a glance of suspicion at his son.
“Tillizini,” he said shortly. “The old fool--why doesn’t he keep to his
books and his lectures?”
“He has been very kind to me,” said the younger man. He spoke
thoughtfully, reflectively. “I am sorry he has annoyed you, Father; but
it is his business--this investigation of crime.”
“Crime!” roared the old man. “How dare you, a son of mine, sitting at
my own table, refer to the actions of the Red Hand as crime!”
His face went red with rage, and he cast a glance of malevolence at
his heir which might well have shocked a more susceptible man.
But Antonio Festini was used to such exhibitions. He was neither
embarrassed nor distressed by this fresh exhibition of his father’s
dislike. He knew, and did not resent, the favouritism shown to Simone,
his brother. It did not make him love his brother less or dislike his
father more.
Antonio Festini had many qualities which his countrymen do not usually
possess. This phlegmatic, philosophical attitude of mind had been bred
in him. Some remote ancestor, cool, daring, possibly with a touch of
colder blood in his ancestry, had transmitted to this calm youth some
of the power of detachment.
He knew his father hated the old professor of anthropology at Florence;
for the Festinis, even to this day, preserved the spirit of antagonism
which the Sienese of half a thousand years ago had adopted to the
Florentine.
There were schools enough in Siena; a college most famous for its
lawyers and its doctors.
Simone was graduating there, and what was good enough for Simone should
surely be good enough for Antonio.
But the elder son had chosen Florence with that deliberation which had
always been his peculiarity, even from his earliest childhood, and in
face of all opposition, in defiance of all the Festini tradition, it
was to Florence he went.
Tillizini, that remarkable scientist, had conceived a friendship for
the boy; had taken him under his wing and had trained him in his own
weird, irregular, and inconsequent way.
Tillizini was a master of crime, and he possessed an encyclopædic
knowledge of men. He was at the beck and call of the secret police from
one end of Italy to the other, and, so rumour said, was in receipt of
retaining fees from the governments of other nations.
It was Tillizini who had set himself to work to track down the Red Hand
which had terrorized the South of Italy for so many years and had now
extended its sphere of operations to the North.
And it was a hateful fact that his work had been crowned with success.
His investigations had laid by the heels no less a person than the
considerable Matteo degli Orsoni, the Roman lawyer, who, for so many
years, had directed the operations of one of the most powerful sections
of the Red Hand.
There was something like fear in the old man’s breast, though he was
too good a Festini to display it; and it was fear which leavened his
rage.
“You shall hear a different tale of this Tillizini,” he growled, “mark
you that, Antonio. Some day he will be found dead--a knife in his
heart, or his throat cut, or a bullet wound in his head--who knows? The
Red Hand is no amusing organization.”
He looked long and keenly at his son.
Simone leaned over, his elbows on the table, his chin resting on his
hands, and eyed his brother with dispassionate interest.
“What does Tillizini know of me?” asked the old man suddenly. “What
have you told him?”
Antonio smiled.
“That is an absurd question, Father,” he said; “you do not imagine that
I should speak to Signor Tillizini of you?”
“Why not?” said the other gruffly. “Oh, I know your breed. There is
something of your mother in you. Those Bonnichi would sell their wives
for a hundred lire!”
Not even the reference to his mother aroused the young man to anger.
He sat with his hands thrust into the pockets of his riding breeches,
his head bent a little forward, looking at his father steadily,
speculatively, curiously.
For a few minutes they stared at one another, and the boy on the other
side of the table glanced from father to brother, from brother to
father, eagerly.
At last the old man withdrew his eyes with a shrug, and Antonio leaned
across the table and plucked two grapes from a big silver dish in the
centre, with a hand to which neither annoyance nor fear contributed a
tremor.
The old man turned to his favourite.
“You may expect the _birri_ here to-day or to-morrow,” he said. “There
will be a search for papers. A crowd of dirty Neapolitans will go
rummaging through this house. I suppose you would like me to ask your
friend, Tillizini, to stay to dinner?” he said, turning to the other
with a little sneer.
“As to that, you must please yourself, Father; I should be very
delighted if you did.”
“By faith, you would,” snarled the old man. “If I had an assurance that
the old dog would choke, I’d invite him. I know your Tillizini,” he
said gratingly, “Paulo Tillizini.” He laughed but there was no humour
in his laughter.
Antonio rose from the table, folded his serviette into a square and
placed it neatly between the two Venetian goblets which were in front
of him.
“I have your permission to retire?” he said, with a ceremonious little
bow.
A jerk of the head was the only answer.
With another little bow to his brother, the young man left the room. He
walked through the flagged and gloomy hall to the ponderous door of the
Palazzo.
A servant in faded livery opened the door, and he stepped out into the
blinding sunlight. The heat struck up at him from the paved street as
from a blast furnace.
He had no definite plans for spending the afternoon, but he was anxious
to avoid any further conflict with his father, and though he himself
did not approve of the association which his house had formed with the
many desperate, guilty bands which tyrannized over Italy, yet he was
anxious to think out a method by which the inevitable exposure and
disgrace might be avoided.
There was no question of sentiment as far as he was concerned. He had
reached the point where he had come to regard not only his father but
his younger brother--so eager to assist and so anxious for the day
when he would be able to take an active part in the operations of the
League--as people outside the range of his affections.
It was natural that he should gravitate toward the Piazza del Campo.
All Siena moved naturally to this historic fanlike space, with its
herring-boned brick pavement and its imperishable association with the
trials and triumphs of Siena.
He stood by the broad central pavement which marks the course of the
Pallio, deep in thought, oblivious of the many curious glances which
were thrown in his direction. For despite the heat of the day, all
Siena was abroad.
Had he been less engrossed by his thoughts, he might have regarded it
as curious that the Sienese, who hold this hour sacred to the siesta,
should have so thronged the square and the street on a hot June
afternoon.
Standing there, absorbed by his thoughts, he heard his name spoken
softly behind him, and turned.
He snatched off his soft felt hat with a smile, and extended his hand.
“I did not expect to see you, Signor Tillizini,” he said.
The pleasure of the meeting, however, was overclouded a second later,
as he realized with a sense of apprehension that the old professor’s
visit was not without gloomy significance to his house.
Professor Tillizini, at that time, was in his eightieth year. As
straight as a die, his emaciated and æsthetic face was relieved by two
burning eyes in which the soul of the man throbbed and lived.
He took the arm of his pupil and led him across the Piazza at a slow
pace.
“Antonio mio,” he said with grave affection, “I am come because the
government desires certain information. You know, although I have not
told you, that we are inquiring into a certain organization.”
He laid his thin white hand upon the other’s shoulder, and stopped,
peering down into the boy’s face with keen attention.
“Antonio,” he said slowly, “that investigation is to be directed toward
your father and his actions.”
The other nodded. “I know,” he said simply.
“I am glad you know,” said Tillizini, with a little sigh of relief. “It
has rather worried me. I wanted to tell you some time ago that such an
inquiry was inevitable, but I did not think I would be doing my duty
to the state if I gave that information.”
Antonio smiled a little sadly.
“It does not matter, signor,” he said; “as a matter-of-fact, my father
knows, and is expecting you.”
Tillizini nodded.
“That I expected too,” he said, “or rather, let me be frank--I hoped he
would be; for a policeman expected is a policeman defeated,” he smiled.
They walked a little way in silence, then--
“Are you satisfied in your mind that my father is concerned in all
these outrages?” asked Antonio.
The old man looked at him sharply.
“Are you not also?” he asked.
The heir of the Festinis made no reply. As if by mutual consent they
changed the subject and spoke of other matters.
The old man was awaiting the arrival of the police officers; that much
Antonio guessed.
They spoke of the college at Florence and of mutual friends. Then,
by easy stages, the professor approached his favourite subject--the
subject of his life-work.
“It is a thousand pities, is it not,” he said, “that, having got so
far, the good God will not give me another hundred years of life?”
He smiled and shrugged his shoulders.
“At the end of which time I should require another hundred,” he said
philosophically. “It is as well, perhaps, that we cannot have our
desires. It would have satisfied me,” he continued, “had I a son to
carry on my work. Here again I am denied. I have not, I admit,” he
said, with that naïveté which was his charm, “even in my life provided
myself with a wife. That was an oversight for which I am now being
punished.”
He stopped as a tall officer in the uniform of the carbineers came
swinging across the Piazza del Campo, and Antonio Festini instinctively
stepped away from his master’s side.
The two spoke together, and by and by, with a little nod of farewell
and a fleeting shadow of pity in his eyes, Tillizini accompanied the
tall officer in the direction of the Palazzo Festini.
Antonio watched him until he was out of sight. Then he resumed his
aimless pacing up and down the Piazza, his hands behind his back, his
head sunk forward on his breast.
Tillizini accompanied the tall officer to the Festini Palace. He
pulled the rusty bell that hung by the side of the great door, and was
admitted.
He was conducted with all the ceremony which his obvious rank
demanded--for was not there an officer of carbineers accompanying him,
and did not that officer treat him with great deference?--to the big
salon of the Festinis.
It was an apartment bleak and bare. The ancient splendours of the
painted ceiling were dim and dingy, the marble-flagged floor was broken
in places, and no attempt had been made to repair it. The few chairs,
and the French table, which had been pushed against the wall, seemed
lost in that wilderness of chilly marble.
In a few moments Count Festini came in. He was still dressed in his
velvet coat and waistcoat, and the riding breeches and boots which he
and his sons invariably wore, for they were great horsemen, and had but
that one taste in common.
He favoured Tillizini with a bow, which the professor returned.
“I am at your excellency’s disposition,” he said formally, and waited.
“Count Festini,” said Tillizini, “I have come upon an unpleasant
mission.”
“That is regrettable,” said Count Festini shortly.
“It is my duty to ask you to allow me to conduct a personal examination
of your papers.”
“That is not only unfortunate, but outrageous,” said Festini, yet
without the sign of irritation which the carbineer officer, his fingers
nervously twitching the whistle which would summon his men, had
expected.
“It is not my wish,” Tillizini went on, “to make this visit any more
disagreeable to your excellency than is necessary, therefore I ask you
to regard me rather as a friend who desires to clear your name from
aspersions which----”
“You will spare me your speeches,” said Count Festini shortly. “I know
you, Paulo Tillizini. I thought you were a gentleman, and entrusted
you with the education of my son. I find you are a policeman. In these
days”--he shrugged his shoulders--“the Italian nobility--and if I
remember aright, you come from the house of one Buonsignori?----”
Tillizini bowed.
“In these days,” Festini went on, “it is necessary, I presume, for our
decaying nobility to find some means of providing portions for their
marriageable daughters.”
“In my case,” said Tillizini, “that is unnecessary.”
He spoke suavely and calmly: every word which Count Festini had uttered
was, by the code which both men understood, a deadly insult. Yet
Tillizini preserved the same outward show of unconcern which Festini
had seen so disastrously reproduced in his son.
“I can only add,” the old man went on, “this one fact--that to whatever
depths a member of a noble house may sink in assisting the state to
bring justice to the men who are setting the laws of the country at
defiance, it is possible, signor, for a man to sink still lower, and to
be one of those whose dreadful acts, and whose cruel practices, set the
machinery of the law in motion.”
He spoke in his passionless, even tones, and a red flush crept over the
count’s face.
“You may search as you wish,” he said. “My house is at your
disposition. Here are my keys.”
He produced from his pocket a steel ring on which a dozen keys hung.
Tillizini made no attempt to take them.
“If you will conduct me to your bedroom,” he said, “I shall not trouble
you with any further search.”
For a second only Count Festini hesitated. A swift cloud of
apprehension passed across his face. Then with a bow he extended his
hand to the door.
He followed them into the hall and led the way up the stairs. His room
was a large one facing the road. It was as poorly furnished as the
remainder of the house.
Tillizini closed the door behind him, and the officer stood, barring
all egress.
“Here are my keys.”
Again Count Festini held out the polished bunch.
“Thank you, I do not want them,” said Tillizini. He stood squarely
before the man. “I think it is as well, Count,” he said gently, “that
I should tell you what I know. Four days ago a man was arrested in the
act of placing a bomb on the railway line between Rome and Florence.
He was apparently a new recruit, but after he was arrested it was
discovered that he was a man who stood very high in the councils of the
Florentine branch of your excellent society.”
Festini said nothing. He listened with every interest.
“In some way,” Tillizini went on, “this man had discovered many secrets
which I am sure the Red Hand had no intention of revealing. He may
have acted as secretary to one of the heads of your order. At any rate,
he knew that documents incriminating yourself and a very large number
of influential people in Italy were secreted in this house.”
“Indeed!” said Festini coldly. “You have the keys; you may verify for
yourself the truth of your informant’s statement.”
Again Tillizini made no attempt to take the keys from him.
“He knew more than I have told,” he said slowly. “He indicated to me a
hiding-place which I gather is known only to you and to the leaders of
your band.”
He walked to the end of the room, where four long windows lit the
apartment. Between the second and the third hung a picture in a deep
gold frame. He passed his hand gingerly over the scrollwork on the left
side of the frame.
Presently he found what he wanted, and pressed.
The bottom half of the rich carving opened like a narrow drawer.
Festini watched him, motionless, as he took a bundle of papers from the
secret recess behind the hinged moulding.
Tillizini examined them briefly at the window and placed them
carefully in the inside pocket of his coat. He looked at Festini long
and earnestly, but before he could speak the door was opened and Simone
Festini came in quickly.
He walked to his father.
“What is it?” he asked, and bent his angry brows upon the old professor.
“It is nothing, my son,” said Count Festini.
He laid his hand upon the boy’s head and smiled.
“You must go downstairs until I have finished my business with his
excellency.”
The boy hesitated.
“Why should I go?” he asked.
He scented the danger and was hard to move. He looked round from one to
the other, alert, suspicious, almost catlike.
“If anything should happen to me, Simone,” said Count Festini softly,
“I beg you to believe that I have provided for you handsomely, and
there is a provision which is greater than any I can offer you--the
protection and the friendship, and as I hope one day, the leadership,
of comrades who will serve you well. And now you must go.”
He bent down and kissed the young man on the cheek.
Simone went out, dry-eyed, but full of understanding. In the hall below
he came face to face with his brother, who had returned from the Piazza.
“Come this way, Antonio,” said the boy gravely.
He walked first into the dining room, where an hour ago they had been
seated together at their meal.
“Our father is under arrest, I think,” he said, still coolly, as though
he were surveying a commonplace happening. “I also think I know what
will happen next. Now, I ask you, which way do you go if I take up our
father’s work?”
His eyes were bright with suppressed excitement; he had grown suddenly
to a man in that brief consciousness of impending responsibility.
Antonio looked at him sorrowfully.
“I go the straight way, Simone,” he said quietly. “Whichever way is
honest and clean and kindly, I go that way.”
“_Buono!_” said the other. “Then we part here unless God sends a
miracle--you to your destiny and I to mine.”
He stopped and went deadly white, and looking at him, Antonio saw the
beads of sweat upon his brow.
“What is the matter?” he asked, and stepped forward to his side, but
the boy pushed him back.
“It is nothing,” he said, “nothing.”
He held himself stiffly erect, his beautiful face raised, his eyes
fixed on the discoloured decorations of the ceiling.
For he had heard the pistol-shot, muffled as it was by intervening
doors and thick walls, that told the end for Count Festini.
Tillizini, hurrying down to break the news to him, found him fully
prepared.
“I thank your excellency,” said the boy. “I knew. Your excellency will
not live to see the result of your work, for you are an old man, but
if you did, you will behold the revenge which I shall extract from the
world for this murder, for I am very young, and, by God’s favour, I
have many years to live.”
Tillizini said nothing, but he went back to Florence a sad man.
Three months afterward he again visited Siena, and in the Via Cavour,
in broad daylight, he was shot down by two masked men who made good
their escape; and, in his chair, at the College of Anthropology at
Florence, there reigned, in good time, Tillizini the younger.
CHAPTER I
SIR RALPH DELIVERS JUDGMENT
It was absurd to call the affair the Red Hand Trial, because the
Red Hand had played no part in the case so far as the burglary was
concerned.
It was a very commonplace burglary with a well-known, albeit humble
member of Burboro’s community in the dock. He had been found in a
house in the early hours of the morning, he had given an incoherent
explanation to the alert butler who had captured him, and beyond a
rigmarole of a story that some mysterious Italian had sent him thither,
there was no hint of the workings of the extraordinary association
which at the moment agitated the law-abiding people of Britain.
It was equally absurd and grossly unfair to accuse the newspapers, who
referred to it as the Red Hand Case, of unjustifiable sensationalism.
After all, there was an Italian mentioned in connection with the
charge--quite enough in those days of panic to justify the reference.
The Session House was crowded, for the case had excited more than usual
interest. All the county was there. Lady Morte-Mannery occupied a seat
on the bench, as was her right. Most of the house party from East
Mannery had driven over and were seated in privileged places, to the no
small inconvenience of the bar and the representatives of the press,
the latter of whom bitterly and indignantly resented this encroachment
upon their already restricted domain.
But Sir Ralph Morte-Mannery, the chairman of the session, had a short
way with critics and professed, though his practice did not always
come into line with his theory, that the press might be ignored and
impressed with a sense of its own unworthiness.
The pressmen in the Session House at Burboro’ were constantly
undergoing that mysterious process which is known as “being put in
their place.” They desired, most earnestly, that the principle should
be applied now, for their places were occupied by the guests of the
chairman.
Hilary George, K. C., sat with his colleagues, though only as a
spectator. He was curious to see in operation the workings of justice,
as Sir Ralph conceived it.
Sir Ralph’s sentences were notorious, his judgments had before now come
up for revision. He was, perhaps, the best hated man in the country.
Mothers frightened their obstreperous children with references to
Sir Ralph. He was the bogey man of the poacher, a moral scarecrow
to tramps, people who slept out at night, and such-like dangerous
characters.
A little man, spare and bony, his clothes, though carefully fitted,
seemed to hang upon him; his face was long and white and solemn;
his lips drooped mournfully at each corner. A pair of gold-mounted
pince-nez struck such an angle on his pendulous nose as to suggest that
they were so placed in order not to obstruct his line of vision. His
hair was white and thin; he had two dirty-gray tufts of side-whisker,
and affected a Gladstonian collar. His voice, when he spoke, was
querulous and complaining; he gave the impression that he felt a
personal resentment toward the unfortunate prisoner in the dock for
having dragged him from his comfortable library to this ill-ventilated
court.
Sir Ralph was a man hovering about the age of sixty. His wife, who
was looking supremely lovely in her black velvet cloak and her big
black hat, which one white feather lightened, was nearly thirty years
his junior. A beautiful woman by some standards. Junoesque, imperial,
commanding; her lips in repose were thin and straight, and if the truth
be told, a little repellent. Some people found them so. Hilary George,
for one, a daring rider to hounds, and wont to employ the phraseology
of the field, confessed that he never saw those lips tighten but a
voice within him uttered the warning, “’Ware! ’ware!”
She was a beautiful woman, and a disappointed woman. She had married
Sir Ralph Morte-Mannery, five years before, in the supreme faith that
she had emerged for ever from that atmosphere of penury which had
surrounded her girlhood; that she had said good-bye to the strivings,
the scrimpings, and the make-believe of shabby gentility with which
a mother with social aspirations and an income of £150 a year had
enclouded her.
But Vera Forsyth found she had moved from an atmosphere of penury
enforced by circumstances to an atmosphere of penury practised for love
of it. Sir Ralph was a mean man; he was little short of a miser, and he
had the settled conviction that, in taking care of the pennies, he was
appointed, as by divine right, the natural heir to hundreds.
It seemed to her, in her first year of marriage, that she could never
escape from the eternal account book. He was a man who believed in
domestic stock-taking. He knew, better than she, the prevalent price of
potatoes, and he noted with pain any advance in the grocer’s bill, and
set himself the congenial task of discovering the cause for any such
swollen expenditure.
Now she looked along the bench at her husband curiously; he was always
a source of interest to her. She needed some such interest to sustain
her in her everyday acquaintance with this man.
He was summing up with gross partiality. Though he had had one or two
bad raps from the Court of Criminal Appeal, he was not to be turned
from his set purpose, which was to rid the country of those who showed
a disinclination to distinguish the difference between _meum_ and
_tuum_.
All who knew the circumstances realized that the summing up was in
the veriest bad taste. The young man, white of face, who stood by the
dock’s edge, his shaking hands clasping and unclasping the iron rail
before him, was being tried for burglary and the burglary was at Sir
Ralph’s own place.
“He has told you, gentlemen of the jury,” went on Sir Ralph in his
speech, “that a mysterious Italian asked him to break into the house,
where somebody would be waiting to give him an equally mysterious
packet. He did not intend to steal, so he tells you; he was merely
carrying out the instructions of this mythical--perhaps I ought not to
say ‘mythical,’” said Sir Ralph hastily, with the recollection of a
lord chief justice’s comments on a judgment of his--“but which may to
you, gentlemen of the jury, appear to be a mythical person.
“He tells you that he was induced by his poverty to go to Highlawn at
midnight, to effect an entrance through the kitchen, and there to wait
until some cloaked, masked individual brought him a packet which he
was to bring away. He tells you that he had no intention whatever of
robbing the owner. He was merely being the accomplice of some person in
the house.”
Sir Ralph leaned back with a little contemptuous smile.
“Well, gentlemen of the jury,” he said, throwing out his hands, with
pseudo good-nature, “if you believe that, of course you still must
convict the man on the charge of being an accomplice. As you know,
there is in this house a very valuable collection of Renaissance
jewelry, and when the counsel for the Crown tells you, as he has told
you, that the inference to be drawn from the man’s presence in the
kitchen, where the butler discovered him, is that he intended to make
a raid upon that jewelry, you are, perhaps, as justified in believing
that suggestion as you are in believing that of the prisoner’s
counsel--that he was merely acting as an innocent agent in the matter.”
He said a few more words, summarized such of the evidence as had not
come under his previous purview, and commended the jury to their
deliberations with the air of benevolence which invariably enwrapped
the peroration of his more malignant speeches.
The jury tramped out and a buzz of conversation overhung the court. The
prisoner lingered a little by the rails; he looked down at the delicate
face of his girl-wife, this woman of seventeen, who had sat throughout
the trial tense and haggard, listening to the evidence.
“It can’t be helped, dear,” he said. He was a man of the working
classes, but his voice showed an unusual culture.
The girl could only raise her piteous eyes to his; her lips trembled,
she could frame no answer. She knew that her young husband spoke the
truth. Poverty had ground them down to desperation, but to whatever end
it might drive them, it would never make her man a thief.
The jury were back in five minutes. They shuffled into the box and
answered to their names, keeping their eyes averted from the prisoner
at the bar. The clerk of assizes put his questions to them.
“Do you find the prisoner guilty or not guilty of the crime of
burglary?”
“Guilty,” said the foreman, in a high, nervous voice.
Sir Ralph nodded his head approvingly. He turned to the prisoner as the
clerk said, “Have you anything to say before the sentence is passed?”
The man in the dock took a swift glance at the drooping figure of his
wife. She had fainted, and a kindly policeman was lifting her to carry
her from the court.
“The story I have told,” he said, speaking clearly and without
hesitation, “was a true story. I had no idea of burgling your house,
Sir Ralph. I merely went there because I thought I was acting as the
agent of somebody who was carrying on some sort of----” he hesitated.
“I hardly like to say it--some sort of intrigue,” he continued boldly,
“and did not want this fact to leak out.”
His eyes roved round the bench and halted when they met those of Lady
Morte-Mannery. They looked at each other; she calmly, incuriously, he
hopefully, with a wondering, puzzled stare.
“It is my first offense,” he went on. “I have never been in this
position before, and although the jury have found me guilty, my lord, I
do hope that you will take a lenient view of my offense, not only for
my own sake, but for the sake of my wife and unborn child.” His voice
shook a little as he pleaded. It was the only sign of emotion he had
given.
Sir Ralph nodded again. It was a grim nod. It put a period to the
prisoner’s speech. The chairman adjusted his gold pince-nez and bent
his head from left to right, consulting his colleagues.
“Your offense, George Mansingham,” he said, “is peculiarly abhorrent
to me. I do not consider the fact that the house burgled was my own.
Fortunately, I am unaffected by personal considerations, and the fact
that I, myself, was away from home that night enables me to try this
case in an unprejudiced spirit.”
He looked down at the paper on his desk musingly. Then he suddenly
jerked his head up.
“You will be kept in penal servitude for seven years,” he said.
Something like a gasp ran through the court. Hilary George, monocle in
eye, half started to his feet, then sank back again. The man in the
dock stood dazed.
“Seven years,” he repeated, and shook his head as though he could not
understand it, then turned and stepped down the stairs which led to the
cells below.
Hilary George was a stout man; he had a large fresh face, and eyes that
told plainly of his immense vitality and joy of life. Seeing him you
thought of an overgrown boy, and the monocle, as a friend had remarked,
seemed out of place in one so young. He had one of the biggest
practices at the bar; he was a skilful lawyer and a brilliant debater.
You might think him an easy man to manage, with his parted lips, that
showed two rows of white even teeth, and that look of surprise and
delight which shone in his eyes. But no man who had ever tried to
persuade Hilary George against his will or against his better judgment
had ever repeated the attempt.
He stood now, an immaculate figure, on the steps of the Session House.
He was not smiling, he looked as grave as his facial conformation would
allow. Very slowly, very deliberately, he buttoned the white gloves
over his huge hands. He looked at his watch, and, as he did so, the
East Mannery party came out, Lady Morte-Mannery a little ahead, Sir
Ralph following with two or three of his guests.
“Will you drive over in the car with us, or will you take the
wagonette?” asked Sir Ralph pleasantly. He was rather in awe of the big
barrister--as much in awe as he could be of anybody--and he invariably
cloaked his uneasiness with a certain perkiness of manner which passed
with Sir Ralph for good humour.
“I’m not coming over, Ralph,” said Hilary George quietly.
The chairman raised his brows.
“Not coming over?” he repeated. “What do you mean?”
“I’m going back to town,” said Hilary, slowly as before.
“But why? What has happened? I thought you were keen on the shooting.”
“I’d rather not say why,” said Hilary. “If you’ll be good enough to
tell my man to bring my luggage to the station, I’ll amuse myself in
Burboro’ for another hour.”
“But what is the reason?” persisted Sir Ralph. “Have you had any news?
Is there any necessity for your going back to town?”
Hilary scratched his chin reflectively.
“I’ll tell you,” he said, and faced the other squarely. “You’ve just
sentenced a man to seven years’ penal servitude.”
“Yes?” replied Sir Ralph wonderingly.
“It was a perfectly beastly sentence,” said the K. C., and every word
cut like a knife. “A perfectly beastly, malicious, vindictive, unjust
sentence,” he repeated, “and I would not stay another hour in the house
of the man who passed it.
“More than this!” he said, with a sudden accession of fierceness and
benevolent malignity, if the paradox may be allowed, which almost
paralyzed his hearer, “I will not rest until that sentence is reduced.
My solicitors shall take it to the Court of Appeal.”
“You--you--how dare you!” spluttered Sir Ralph.
“A perfectly beastly sentence,” repeated the other, with annoying
deliberation. “Don’t talk to me, Sir Ralph, I’m not a tyro, I’m a
barrister. I know the game better than you. I know what sentence was
justifiable there. I know exactly how your own personal prejudice
stepped in to confine this man--this young man, a first offender--to a
living hell.”
He spoke with vehemence, his plump face growing redder and redder as
his anger rose.
“I will never forgive you, Hilary,” cried Sir Ralph, shaking with
anger. “You have mortally offended me. You know I believe in long
sentences.”
“I don’t care a damn what you believe in,” said the other, and his
very calmness emphasized the strength of his language. “I bid you good
morning.”
He walked over to where Lady Morte-Mannery stood watching them.
“I am sorry, Lady Morte-Mannery,” he said, a little stiffly, “I shall
not be coming back to the house. An important engagement has called me
to London.”
She murmured her sorrow conventionally, though she was by no means
displeased to see the back of a man whom at first she had regarded as
one who might easily be influenced to her views. Her views, it may here
be remarked, were peculiar.
“Why has he gone?” she asked her husband, as the car drove through the
main street of Burboro’.
Sir Ralph, who was glowering with rage, vouchsafed a snarling answer.
“How do I know? Why do you ask ridiculous questions? Because he’s a
fool,” he went on viciously. “Because he’s a blackguard. He’s grossly
insulted me, and I’ll never forgive him.” He was in a white heat of
temper, and for the whole day brooded on the affront which had been
offered him.
Vera made one or two ineffectual attempts to smooth his ruffled
plumage. She was particularly anxious to get him into a good mood. She
had one or two requests to make, which, in his present frame of mind,
she knew would be rejected without thought. Her efforts were unavailing.
“I wish you wouldn’t potter round,” he growled, when she went into the
library on the pretext of tidying away some books which had been left
out by some careless guest.
“Oh, come here,” he said, as she was going out of the room. “Here’s a
bill from Burt’s. How many packets of prepared oats did we have in last
week?”
“I forget, dear,” she said.
“Six,” he growled. “Do you know we have never had more than four
before?”
“Mr. George liked it for breakfast,” she answered.
“Mr. George!” he almost shouted. “Don’t mention that man’s name.
Why is Bulgered charging 1s. 0-1/2_d._ a pound for his beef? It’s
monstrous--change the butcher. I wish to goodness you’d show some
interest in the conduct of your house, Vera.”
He scowled at her under his white shaggy brows.
“You go on as if I was made of money. Practise some sense of economy.
My dear girl, before you were married you counted every penny. Imagine
they are your mother’s, and count mine.”
With a shrug, she left him. He was utterly impossible in these moods.
She went into the drawing room wondering how she should approach her
lord on the subject which lay uppermost in her mind. A girl sat in one
of the windows, reading. She looked up with a smile as Vera entered.
“Isn’t it a bore?” she said. “They’ve just told me that Mr. George has
gone back to town. He played such beautiful piquet. Why has he gone?”
She rose lazily, putting her book down. She was a tall, beautiful
girl, of that exquisite colouring which is the English gentlewoman’s
heritage. The well-poised head was crowned with a luxurious mass of
russet gold hair. Her eyebrows, two delicate lines of jet black,
were set over a pair of the loveliest eyes that man ever looked
into. At least, so thought many a man who knew her. Even Sir Ralph,
self-engrossed and contemptuous, he said, of beauty, had commented upon
their liquid loveliness.
A straight nose, and a firm, rebellious chin, a perfectly calm mouth,
completed the picture. As she moved she displayed the grace of her
slender figure. Every movement suggested the life of freedom--freedom
of field and road--eloquently, and her complexion, the softening
qualities of her native Ireland.
“The horrible thing about being a poor relation,” she said, as she
dropped her strong hand affectionately on the other’s shoulder, “is
that one can’t command the friends of one’s rich relations. I should
have told Hilary George: ‘You cannot go to London, however pressing
your business may be, because my niece, Marjorie, wants somebody to
play piquet with her.’”
Vera shook the hand from her shoulder with a scarcely perceptible
movement.
“Don’t be silly, Marjorie,” she said a little tartly. “Ralph’s very
worried. Hilary has been awfully rude to your uncle.”
The girl’s eyebrows rose.
“Rude?” she repeated. “Why, I thought they were such good friends.”
“He has been very rude,” she said again. “By the way,” she said, “your
man is coming down to-day, isn’t he?”
The girl’s face flushed. She drew herself up a little.
“I wish you wouldn’t say that sort of thing, Vera,” she said. “I do
try to be nice to you, and you never lose an opportunity of speaking
unkindly.”
Vera laughed and strolled across to the piano.
“I didn’t know that was unkind,” she said, as she seated herself and
pulled out some music from the rack at her side.
The girl followed her, her hands behind her back; she stood behind her.
“Do you like me, Vera?” she asked.
Vera looked around and stared at her.
“My dear child,” she said, “don’t be absurd. I don’t dislike you.”
“But you do,” persisted the other. “I have seen it so often. I’ve had
such convincing evidence, and it makes me a little unhappy.” She drew
up a chair by the side of the piano and sat down.
“Don’t play,” she said, “just let us have a heart-to-heart talk.”
“That’s the kind of talk I loathe. I’ve just been having a
heart-to-heart talk about Quaker Oats,” said the other. “But this young
man--what’s his name?”
“Gillinford--Frank Gillinford,” said Marjorie steadily.
“You are rather keen on him, aren’t you?”
“I am hoping that he is rather keen on me,” said the girl, her sense of
humour getting the better of her resentment.
“What is he--an engineer or something?” asked Vera, touching the keys
lightly with her sensitive hands.
“Something of the sort.” And Marjorie changed the conversation. “Didn’t
Uncle rather--rather”--she hesitated for a simile--“as Mr. George would
say, ‘whack it into’ that unfortunate person?”
“You mean the burglar?”
Marjorie nodded.
“I don’t think he got any more than he deserved,” said Vera.
“Do you really think he came after Uncle’s collection?”
“Why not?” asked Vera, without looking round. “It is a very valuable
one. There are medallions there worth three or four hundred pounds
each--there is one there worth a thousand, at least,” she added
quickly. “I believe that is so.”
“But what use would they be to him?” persisted the girl.
“Well----” Vera shrugged her shoulders. “You are asking me to give a
psychological survey of a burglar’s mind,” she said, “and that I am not
prepared to do.”
Marjorie walked back to the window and looked out on the dismal
landscape. It had been raining for the last hour, and the trees looked
especially miserable, half enveloped as they were by a mist which was
driving up from the Medway Valley.
“I shouldn’t advise you to discuss the question of that sentence with
your uncle,” said Vera across her shoulder. “He is rather sore; I think
that was the cause of his quarrel with Hilary George.”
The girl made no reply. She could not understand Vera. She had
always been an enigma to her. That she was a disappointed woman,
Marjorie knew. She had expected to inherit a life of luxurious calm;
instead, she had merely succeeded the housekeeper, whom Sir Ralph had
thoughtfully discharged, and had, moreover, dated his discharge as from
the date of his wedding.
Vera was an ambitious woman. She had set no limit upon her
possibilities. She had come, as she had thought, into a wider world, to
a larger life, with scope for the exercise of her undoubted genius, but
had found herself restricted to the prosaic duties of housekeeping for
a querulous and a mean old man.
Marjorie’s reverie was cut short by the sudden cessation of the music.
There was a little pause, and then Vera’s voice asked:
“Where could I raise five hundred pounds?”
CHAPTER II
THE CALL OF TILLIZINI
Marjorie turned with a start.
“Five hundred pounds?” she repeated.
Vera nodded.
“I want that sum,” she said, “for a purpose. You understand that this
is confidential?”
“Oh, quite,” said Marjorie, “but it is a lot of money. Couldn’t you get
it from Uncle Ralph?”
“Uncle Ralph!” repeated the other contemptuously. “He wouldn’t give
five hundred potatoes! A demand for five hundred pounds would estrange
us for the rest of our lives.”
She gave a bitter little laugh.
Marjorie knit her pretty brows in thought.
“I can’t think of anybody,” she said slowly.
“Then don’t,” said Vera briskly. “I don’t know exactly why I asked you.”
Further discussion of the subject was made impossible by the arrival of
Sir Ralph himself.
He had evidently forgotten that any strained relations existed between
himself and his wife, or that her iniquitous extravagance in prepared
oats had ever come between them.
“Vera,” he said, going toward her, “did you notice a man in the court
to-day, a peculiarly foreign-looking man?”
She thought a moment.
“Yes there was a person sitting near----” She nearly said Hilary
George, but deemed it tactful to mention another barrister who had been
engaged in the case.
“How did he impress you?” he asked.
“I should like to say that he did not impress me at all,” she said,
with a smile. She was most anxious to restore him to good humour.
“But unfortunately, I did take particular notice of him: rather a
distinguished-looking man, clean-shaven and with a lined, thoughtful
face.”
Sir Ralph nodded.
“That’s the man,” he said. “I’ve just had a note from him. I didn’t
know he was in Burboro’. That is Tillizini.”
He said this impressively. At the moment, Tillizini’s name was in the
mouth of half the population of England.
“Tillizini?” she repeated, and her eyes narrowed.
He nodded.
“None other,” he said. “I had a note from one of the under-secretaries
of the Home Office saying that he was coming down. I don’t know why our
little burglary should have attracted his attention, but at any rate
he could not have been very interested, for he did not turn up until
to-day. He has just sent a note to tell me that he is staying at the
George, and I have written to ask him to come up to dinner to-night.”
She made a little face.
“He’s a detective or something, isn’t he?” she asked.
“More than a detective.”
Sir Ralph was rather inclined to be irritable if you did not rise to
his values. It was better to overestimate them than to underestimate
them in any case.
“Surely you have read the papers?” he went on, with his best
magisterial air. “You couldn’t very well escape his name nowadays.
He is the man whom the English government brought over as a sort of
consultant, to deal with this terrible outbreak of crime.”
“I’ve heard something about it,” said his wife carelessly. “The Black
Hand or the Red Hand--I forget exactly what colour it is.”
Sir Ralph frowned.
“You must not treat these matters frivolously, Vera,” he said coldly.
“I’ve had reason to speak to you before on similar occasions. The
Red Hand is a very mysterious organization which is striking at the
very heart of our domestic security. Any man, and I may add any
woman, should be extremely grateful to those who, by their gifts of
divination, are endeavouring to shield the innocent victims of a band
of organized criminals.”
Vera hated her husband when he made speeches to her. She knew more
about the Red Hand and its workings than she was prepared to discuss
with Sir Ralph.
It was a pose of hers, as it was a pose of certain members of her
class, to profess a profound ignorance upon matters which were engaging
the attention of newspaper readers. The pose of ignorance is a popular
one with members of the leisured classes; popular, because it suggests
their superiority to the influences which surround them; because it
signalizes their independence of chronicled facts, and because, too, it
is the easiest of all poses to assume and to sustain.
Vera had caught the trick and found it a profitable one. It lent her
an overpowering naïveté, which had a paralyzing effect upon the
better-informed but socially inferior members of the community, and
it precluded one being bored by a long recital of the news which one
had read in the morning papers in a more concise or a more accurate
form. Her interest in the great Italian detective for the moment was a
conventionally domestic one, for she rose from the music stool.
“I shall have to tell Parker to set another place,” she said.
“If he accepts,” interjected Marjorie.
Vera raised her eyebrows with a little smile.
“Don’t be absurd, Marjorie, of course he will accept. What do we call
him--Inspector or Sergeant or something?” she asked of Sir Ralph.
The spirit of revolt was stirring within her, and she permitted herself
a facetiousness of attitude which ordinarily she would not have
expressed. And this, despite the subconscious desire to soothe him into
a complaisant mood.
She never for one moment imagined that he would advance her the money
she required, but he might let her have a portion of it if she could
only invent a story sufficiently plausible. The truth was out of the
question. She smiled to herself at the thought. She was an imaginative
woman but not sufficiently so to picture Sir Ralph in that moment of
confession. She needed the money as she had never needed money before.
It was not for herself--her own wants were few and her tastes simple.
She might, perhaps, induce her husband to let her have a hundred if she
could invent a good reason--and it would have to be a superlatively
good reason to induce Sir Ralph to part with his money.
Somehow the old weariness of it all, the old distaste for the life she
was living, came over her, and induced her to treat the subject in a
manner in which she knew her husband would heartily disapprove.
“You will call him Doctor Tillizini,” said Sir Ralph sternly. “He is a
professor of anthropology in the Florentine School of Medicine. He is a
gentleman, Vera, and I shall expect you to treat him as such.”
Marjorie, who had been an interested spectator of the passage between
husband and wife, had discreetly withdrawn to her book and her chair by
the window. As Sir Ralph turned to go, she rose.
“I say, what fun,” she said. “Is he really coming, Uncle?”
Sir Ralph nodded.
“I hope so. I can do no more than invite him, but he is such a busy
man that he may probably have to go back to town. At any rate, I am
certain,” he said, a little pompously, “that he will approve most
heartily of my treatment of that rascal to-day. I think it is monstrous
the way Hilary George went on....”
He was still sore over his treatment by his whilom friend, and he
launched forth into a sea of explanation and justification, and,
incidentally, gave the girl a fairly garbled version of the scene which
had occurred outside the Session House--a scene in which he had played,
by his account, a dignified and proper part, and in which Hilary had
lost his temper to a distressing degree.
The fire of Sir Ralph’s eloquence burned itself down to glowerings and
splutterings of incoherent disapproval.
“Hilary George,” he said, “will regret this.” He spoke in the satisfied
tone of one who had made special arrangements with Providence to that
end.
Marjorie was following her uncle from the room, when a glance from Vera
brought her back. The older woman waited until the door had closed
behind her husband.
“Marjorie,” she said, in the mild and honeyed tone which the girl
recognized as her At Home voice, “I want you to do something for me.”
“With pleasure, dear,” said the girl warmly.
Lady Morte-Mannery fingered the little silver ornaments on one of
the tables which abounded in the drawing room, and placed them as
though they were pawns in a new game she was playing. She seemed to be
concentrating her attention upon this pastime as she spoke.
“I want you to do something very special for me,” she repeated. “Of
course, I know I can trust you about that money, and now I want to ask
you to help me with a little ruse. This man who is coming to-day,” she
said, “this Italian person, is really not the kind of man I want to
meet. I hate detectives and all those crude, melodramatic individuals.
They talk about crime and things, and besides,” she hesitated, “I can
trust you, can’t I?”
She looked up sharply.
“Yes,” said the girl gravely, wondering what was coming.
“Well, you know, dear,” said Vera slowly, and still playing her
mysterious game with the comfit boxes and Dutch silver, “I’m a member
of a club. It’s a ladies’ club; you won’t find it in Whitaker because
we do not care to advertise our existence, although, of course, we are
registered. Well, we had rather a bother there, two or three months
ago. We--we---- Why should I deceive you?” she said in a burst of
confidence, and with her rare smile. “We were raided! You see, dear, we
played rather heavily. We did not confine ourselves to the prosaic game
of bridge. Some woman--I forget her name--introduced baccarat, and we
had a little wheel too; you know----”
She shrugged her shoulders.
“It was awfully fascinating, and one lost and won quite a considerable
sum. And then there was a bother, and the police came in one night
quite unexpectedly. Your dear Uncle Ralph was in town for the May
Meetings, and I had quite a lot of time on my hands.
“It was very fortunate I escaped any serious consequences of my
rashness. I gave a false name and was brought up the next morning at
Bow Street with the rest of the women--you remember, the case created
quite a sensation--and I was bound over in a false name. Nobody
recognized me and nobody but you is any the wiser.”
She stopped again, and shot a swift, sidelong glance at the girl.
“Oh, you needn’t be shocked,” she said, the acid in her tone asserting
itself. “It wasn’t so very dreadful, only this Tillizini man was in
court that day, and I think he may have recognized me.”
“How awkward!” said Marjorie. “Really, Vera, I’m not a bit shocked, and
it’s not for me, anyway, to sit in judgment on your actions. What do
you want me to do?”
“I want you to help me when I tell Sir Ralph that I am too ill to
entertain this person. I’ll go straightaway to bed, and I want you,
like an angel, to do the honours.”
“Why, with pleasure,” said Marjorie, with a little smile.
“Anyway,” said Vera, a little hardly, “Ralph won’t bully you before
visitors, nor will he refer pointedly to your needless extravagance in
potatoes. Ralph is rather a fanatic on the question of potatoes,” she
said. “There is a standard by which he judges all phases of domestic
economy.”
Marjorie was filled with an infinite pity for the girl. She was not
more than seven or eight years older than herself, still young enough
to find joy in the colour and movement of life.
“I will do anything I can,” she said. For the second time that day she
laid her hand upon the other’s shoulder.
“Don’t paw me, dear,” said Vera, with sudden asperity, and the warm,
generous heart of the girl was chilled. Vera saw this and tried to make
amends.
“Please don’t bother about me, dear,” she said in a softer tone. “I am
rather jagged; too jagged, indeed, to meet this----”
At that point the door of the drawing room was opened, and Parker, the
butler, came in importantly. He stood by the open door.
“Professor Tillizini,” he announced.
CHAPTER III
A HUNTER OF MEN
It seemed to Marjorie that Vera shrank back at the name.
The girl waited for her to go forward and greet the newcomer, but as
she made no move Marjorie realized that she was called upon, even now,
to perform the duties of hostess.
The man in the doorway was tall; he looked taller, perhaps, because
of his slimness. He was clad from head to foot in black, and the big
flowing tie at his neck was of the same sober hue. He carried in his
hand a black soft felt hat, from which the butler had made several
ineffectual attempts to detach him.
His face was long and thin, sallow and lined; his eyes were big and
gray, and steady. They were terribly alive and expressive, Marjorie
thought. They gave the impression that the whole process of life was
comprehended in their depths. His hair was black and was brushed
smoothly behind his ears. He was neither handsome nor ugly. His face
was an unusual one, attractive, because of its very character and
strength. The mouth was big and sensitive; the ungloved hands were long
and white, and as delicate as a surgeon’s.
He gave a quick glance from one to the other.
“I am so sorry to intrude upon you,” he said. There was no trace of
any foreign accent in his voice. “I expected to find Sir Ralph. He is
out--yes?”
He had a quick, alert method of talking. He was eager to the point of
anticipating the reply. Before the girl could answer he had gone on.
“He has kindly asked me to dine to-night. I am so sorry I cannot.
I must be back in London in an hour or two. There are one or two
interviews of importance which I have arranged.”
His smile was a dazzling one; it lit up the whole of his face and
changed him from a somewhat morose, funereal figure to a new and
radiant being.
Marjorie noticed that he was almost handsome in his amusement. The
smile came and went like a gleam of sunshine seen through a rift of
storm-cloud.
“You are Miss Marjorie Meagh,” he said, “and you, madam,” with a
little bow, “are Lady Morte-Mannery.” His head twisted for a moment
inquiringly. That and the bow were the only little signs he gave of his
Continental origin.
Vera forced a smile to her face. She came forward, a little
embarrassed. She had hoped to escape without an introduction and to
have developed a convenient headache to keep out of his way.
“I saw you in court,” said Tillizini quickly. “It was an interesting
case, was it not? That poor man----”
He threw out his arms with a gesture of pity.
“I do not know why you sympathize with him,” said Vera.
“Seven years!” Tillizini shook his head. “It is a long time, madam, for
a man--innocent.”
Again the little shrug. The tall man paced the room nervously.
“You have heard his story. He said that he came to this house to meet
an individual who would give him a packet.”
“But surely you do not believe that?” said the other, with amused
contempt.
“Yes, I believe that,” said Tillizini, calmly and gravely. “Why should
I not? The man’s every attitude, every word, spoke eloquently to me of
his sincerity.”
“Do you believe, then, in this mysterious Italian?” said Vera.
“Oh, Vera, don’t you remember?” Marjorie broke in suddenly, and with
some excitement, “there was an Italian in the town. We saw him the day
before the robbery. Don’t you remember?” she asked again. “A very short
man, with a long Inverness cape which reached to his heels. We passed
him in the car on the Breckley road, and I remarked to you that he was
either an Italian or a Spaniard because of the peculiar way he was
holding his cigarette.”
“Ah, yes!”
It was Tillizini, tremendously vital, all aquiver like some delicately
strung zither whose strings had been set vibrating by a musician’s hand.
“He was short and stout, and was dressed in black,” said the girl.
“A moustache--no?” said Tillizini.
The girl shook her head.
“He was clean-shaven.”
“You were going the same direction--yes?”
Again the girl nodded, with a smile at the man’s eager question.
“And did he turn his face toward you or from you? From you?”
Again the girl nodded.
“He did not want you to see his face?”
Tillizini himself shook his head in answer.
“What rubbish, Marjorie!” broke in Vera petulantly. “I don’t remember
anything of the sort. There are always organ grinders with monkeys and
things of that sort coming through the village, or ice cream people who
come down from Chatham. You are letting your imagination run away with
you.”
Marjorie was amazed. She remembered now the incident most distinctly.
She had spoken of it to Vera in the evening, at dinner. It was amazing
that she herself had forgotten it until this moment.
“But you must remember,” she said.
“I don’t remember,” answered the other shortly. “Besides, you are very
wrong to give Mr. Tillizini a false clue. There can be no doubt that
this man, Mansingham, burgled the house for no other reason than to
steal Sir Ralph’s collection.”
“Instigated by the Italian,” said Tillizini. “Oh, you English people,”
he said, with a despairing shrug, “I am desolated when I speak with
you. You have such a fear of melodrama. You are so insistent upon the
fact that the obvious must be the only possible explanation!”
He shook his head again in humorous resignation. From any other man the
outburst might have sounded as a piece of unpardonable impertinence.
But Tillizini had the extraordinary gift of creating an atmosphere of
old-established friendship. Even Vera, frankly antagonistic, had a
vague sense of having discussed this matter before in identical terms
with the man who spoke so disparagingly of her compatriots.
He looked at his watch.
“I must see Sir Ralph before I go back. Where shall I find him?”
Vera had a shrewd idea that at that moment Sir Ralph was engaged in a
heated interview with the offending butcher who had put a half-penny
upon the price of beef, but she did not think it fair to her husband,
or consonant with her own dignity, to admit as much.
“He’ll return very soon,” she said.
He looked at her sharply, for no reason as far as she could see. There
had been nothing in her tone to justify the look of quick interest
which came to his face.
“I have met you before somewhere, Lady Morte-Mannery,” he said quickly,
“and it is very unusual for me that I cannot for the moment recall the
circumstances.”
“Really?” said Vera, in a tone which suggested that she had no interest
in the matter. “One does have these queer impressions--you’ll excuse me
now, won’t you, Doctor,” she said, “I have got rather a bad headache
and I thought of lying down. Miss Meagh will entertain you till Sir
Ralph returns.”
He stepped quickly to the door and opened it for her, and favoured her
with a little bow as she passed. Then he closed the door and walked
slowly back to Marjorie.
“Where, where, where?” he said, tapping his chin and looking solemnly
at the girl.
She laughed.
“You must not confuse me with the Oracle,” she said. “You know, Doctor,
we ask such questions of you.”
Again that beautiful smile of his illuminated the sombre countenance.
“I was asking this Oracle,” he said, tapping his breast. “And now I
remember. There was a raid on a gambling house. It was run by one of my
compatriots, and I was in court.”
“I hope you will forget that, Dr. Tillizini,” said Marjorie quietly.
“Lady Morte-Mannery may have been very foolish to have been found in
such a place, but it would not be kind to remember----”
She stopped when she saw the look of astonishment on the other’s face.
“My dear lady,” he said, with his winning smile, “you do not suggest
that Lady Morte-Mannery was in any way implicated? It would be wicked,
it would be absurd, it would be villainous,” he said extravagantly,
“to associate such a lady with so sordid a business. This was a very
commonplace raid,” he went on. “They were mostly Italians engaged,
and mostly people of very low origin, and my interest in the case was
merely the hope of identifying some of the participants as gentlemen
who had another interest for me. Lady Morte-Mannery was in court,
certainly, but she was in court as the guest of the magistrate, Mr.
Curtain, the Metropolitan police magistrate, who, I think, is some
relation of Sir Ralph.”
This was so, as Marjorie knew. Then why had Vera lied to her? She
understood how easy it was for her to make up the story; but why give
that as an excuse for not wanting to meet Tillizini?
“There is Sir Ralph,” she said suddenly. She had seen the car go past
the window. “Do you mind staying here alone while I go and tell him you
are here?”
He opened the door for her, with his quaint little bow. She met Sir
Ralph in the hall and explained the fact that the visitor was waiting.
“Where is Vera?” he asked.
“She has gone to lie down,” said Marjorie. “She has a very bad
headache.”
Sir Ralph swore under his breath.
It was her main weapon of defense--that headache. A convenient, but,
to his mind, grossly unfair method of evading her responsibilities. He
was more incensed now because he felt that not only had she failed to
do the honours of his house toward a man for whose position he had an
immense respect, but she had escaped from the just consequence of her
carelessness. He had discovered that it was entirely due to her that
the extra half-penny had been put upon beef. She had acquiesced to the
imposition in a letter which the butcher had triumphantly produced to
vindicate his character.
He was, therefore, at the disadvantage which every man must be, half of
whose mind is occupied by a private grievance, when he met Tillizini.
The two men went off to the library for about a quarter of an hour.
At the end of that time they returned to the drawing room--Tillizini
to take his leave of the girl, and Sir Ralph to see him to his waiting
taxi.
Marjorie saw that the chairman of the Burboro’ Sessions was
considerably ruffled. His face was red, his thin gray hair untidy--ever
a sign of perturbation. He was, too, a little stiff with his guest.
As for Tillizini, he was the same imperturbable, cool, masterful man.
Yes, that was the word which Marjorie sought. This man was masterful to
an extent which she could not divine.
“Some day I shall meet you again,” said Tillizini, as he took the
girl’s hand in his own. She was surprised at the strength of his grip.
“I would not go so soon, but Sir Ralph has kindly given me permission
to see this man, Mansingham, who was convicted to-day.”
“I think your labours are entirely misdirected, Professor,” said Sir
Ralph gruffly. “You will learn nothing from him but a pack of lies.”
“Ah, but lies!” said Tillizini, with an ecstatic gesture. “They are so
interesting, Sir Ralph, so much more interesting than the commonplace
truth, and so much more informative.”
The elder man, who prided himself in post-prandial speeches upon
being a plain, blunt Englishman, and inferentially typical of all
that was best in an Englishman, had no mind for paradoxes. He grunted
unsympathetically.
“You are an Italian,” he said. “I suppose these things amuse you. But
here in England we believe in the obvious. It saves a lot of trouble
and it is generally accurate. You know,” he said testily, “these
stories of mysterious organizations are all very well for novels. I
admit that in your country you have the Camorra, and the possession of
that factor probably unbalances your judgment; but I assure you”--he
laid his hands with heavy and paternal solicitude upon the younger
man’s shoulder--“nothing of that sort----”
They were standing by the window; the dusk was beginning to fall, and
the lights had not yet been lit. He got so far, when of a sudden a pane
of glass, on a level with Tillizini’s head, splintered with a crash. It
seemed to splinter three times in rapid succession, and simultaneously
from without came a thick staccato “Crack! crack! crack!”
CHAPTER IV
THE RED HAND DRAWS BLANK
Sir Ralph felt the whiz of bullets as they passed him, heard the smash
of the picture they struck on the opposite wall, and jumped back, white
and shaking. Tillizini reached out his hand and thrust the girl back to
cover with one motion.
In an instant he was down on his knees, crawling quickly to the window.
He reached up his hands, threw up the sash, and leaned out suddenly.
For a second he stood thus, and then a jet of flame leaped from his
hand, and they were deafened with the report of his Browning. Again
he fired and waited. Then he turned and came back to them, a beatific
smile illuminating his face.
“You were saying,” he said calmly, “that these things do not happen in
England?”
His voice was even and unshaken. The hand that raised a spotless white
handkerchief to wipe his forehead did not tremble.
“What happened?” asked Sir Ralph, in agitation. “It must have been a
poacher or something. Those beggars hate me!”
“Poachers do not use Mauser pistols,” said Tillizini quietly. “If
you take the trouble to dig out the bullets from your wall, which I
am afraid is somewhat damaged, you will discover that they bear no
resemblance whatever to the pellets which, I understand, filled the
cartridges of your friends. No,” he smiled, “those shots were not
intended for you, Sir Ralph. They were very much intended for me.”
He looked wistfully out of the window.
“I’m afraid I didn’t hit him,” he said. “I saw him fairly distinctly as
he made his way through the trees.”
“Who was it?” asked Sir Ralph anxiously.
Tillizini looked at him with an expression of slyness.
“Who was it?” he answered deliberately. “I think it was the Italian who
sent George Mansingham to your house to receive a packet.”
“But from whom?” asked Sir Ralph.
“That we shall know some day,” replied the other evasively.
* * * * *
Sir Ralph went down to the railway station to meet Tillizini again and
to see him off. He was consumed with curiosity as to the result of
the interview with Mansingham, permission for which he had granted the
detective.
Whether he had the right of instructing the warders of the local prison
to admit Tillizini was a moot point; but since the Italian had such
extraordinarily wide powers deputed to him by the Home Office, it was
probable that the interview would have taken place even without Sir
Ralph’s permission.
The chairman had hinted that it would be graceful, if not decent, for
Tillizini to see the prisoner in his presence, but the Italian had
artistically overlooked the suggestion.
It was five minutes before the train left that Tillizini sprang out of
the taxi which brought him to the station entrance. He was smoking a
long, thin cigar, and was, as Sir Ralph judged, tremendously pleased
with himself, for between his clenched teeth he hummed a little tune as
he strode through the booking hall on to the platform.
“Well?” asked the chairman curiously. “What had our friend to say for
himself?”
“Nothing that you do not know,” replied the other brightly. “He merely
repeated the story that he told in the dock about my mysterious
fellow-countryman. He gave me one or two details, which were more
interesting to me than they would be to you.”
“Such as----?” suggested Sir Ralph.
“Well,” Tillizini hesitated, “he told me that his instructor had
informed him that the packet would be small enough to put in his
waistcoat pocket.”
Sir Ralph smiled sarcastically.
“There are a dozen objects in my collection which might be carried in a
man’s waistcoat pocket. No,” he corrected himself, “there are at least
fifty! By the way,” he said suddenly, “you’ve never asked to see my
collection.”
Tillizini shook his head vigorously, amusement in his eyes.
“That would be unnecessary,” he said. “I know every article you have,
Sir Ralph--its size, its origin, almost the price you paid for it.”
Sir Ralph turned to him in surprise.
“But how?” he asked wonderingly. “I have only my private catalogue, and
no copy exists outside my house.”
“Very good,” said Tillizini. “Let me enumerate them.”
He told them off on his hands, finger by finger.
“Number 1, an Egyptian locket from the Calliciti collection--gold,
studded with uncut rubies--value, £420. Number 2, a plaque of
Tanagraware, rather an unusual specimen in a frame of soft gold,
inscribed with Syrian mottoes. Number 3, a crystal medallion, taken by
Napoleon from Naples, on the inverse side a bust of Beatrice D’Este,
on the reverse side Il Moro, the Duke of Milan, value--by the way,
I didn’t give you the previous value because I don’t know it--£600.
Number 4, a Venetian charm in the shape of a harp----”
“But,” gasped Sir Ralph, “these facts regarding my collection are only
known to me.”
“They are also known to me,” said the other.
The train had come in as they were speaking. Tillizini walked toward
an empty carriage and entered it. He closed the door behind him, and
leaned out of the window.
“There are many things to be learned, and this is not the least of
them,” he said. “Between the man with the secret and the man who knows
that secret there are intermediaries who have surprised the first and
informed the second.”
Sir Ralph was puzzling this out when the train drew out of the
station, and its tail lights vanished, through the tunnel which
penetrates Burboro’ Hill.
Left to himself, Tillizini locked both doors and pulled down all the
blinds of his carriage. He had no doubt as to the sinister intentions
of the man or men who had dogged his footsteps so persistently since he
had left London. If he was to be killed, he decided that it should not
be by a shot fired by a man from the footboard.
It was a fast train from Burboro’ to London, and the first stop would
be at London Bridge. He took the central seat of the carriage, put his
feet upon the opposite cushions, laid his Browning pistol on the seat
beside him, and composed himself to read. He had half a dozen London
papers in the satchel which was his inseparable companion.
One of these he had systematically exhausted on the journey down; he
now turned his attention to another. His scrutiny was concentrated
upon the advertisement columns. He did not bother with the agonies,
because he knew that no up-to-date criminal would employ such method of
communication.
One by one he examined the prosaic announcements under the heading
“Domestic Servants Wanted.” He reached the end without discovering
anything exciting. He laid the paper down and took up another.
Half-way down the “Domestic Wants” column his eye was arrested by a
notice. To the ordinary reader it was the commonplace requirement of an
average housewife. It ran:
Cook-General; Italian cooking preferred. Four in family. Fridays; not
Thursdays as previously announced. State amount willing to give.
The address was an advertising agency in the City. He read it again;
took a little penknife from his waistcoat pocket, and carefully cut it
from the paper.
There were many peculiarities about that announcement. There was a
certain egotism in the “Fridays, not Thursdays as previously announced”
which was unusual in this type of advertisement. Who cared whether it
was Thursday or Friday that had been previously given, presumably, as
the evening “out”?
But the glaring error in the advertisement lay in the last sentence.
The average advertiser would be more anxious to know what wages the
newcomer would require, and would most certainly never suggest that
the “Cook-General” whose services were sought should contribute, in
addition to her labour, anything in the nature of payment for the
privilege.
Tillizini looked up at the roof of the carriage in thought. To-day was
Monday. Something had been arranged for Thursday. It had been postponed
till the following day. For that something a price was to be paid,
possibly an advance on the original price agreed upon was demanded. The
advertiser would hardly undertake to perform the service without some
previous agreement as to price.
He did not in any way associate the announcement with the recent events
at Highlawn; they were but part of the big game which was being played.
The emissaries of that terrible society whose machinations he had set
himself to frustrate were no doubt travelling by the same train. He was
so used to this espionage that he ignored it, without despising it. He
was ever prepared for the move, inevitable as it seemed to him, which
would be made against his life and against his security.
It was too much to expect that the Red Hand would forgive him the work
he had accomplished in America. He had cleared the United States from
the greatest scourge of modern times.
It was no fault of his that they had taken advantage of the lax
emigration laws of England to settle in the Metropolis.
He replaced the papers in his satchel, and just before the train ran
into London Bridge he let up the spring blinds of the compartment.
It was dark, and wet, and miserable. He made no attempt to alight at
the station. It was not a safe place, as he knew by experience, for a
threatened man to end his journey.
There were dark tunnels which led to the main entrance of the
station--tunnels in which a man might be done to death, if by chance he
were the only passenger negotiating the exit; and no one would be any
the wiser for five minutes or so--sufficient time, that, to allow these
professional murderers to escape.
Outside Waterloo he pulled the blinds down again. He did these things
automatically, without any fear. He took the same precaution as the
everyday citizen takes in crossing the road. He looked from left to
right before crossing this dangerous highway of his.
Flush with the railway bridge which crosses the river to Charing Cross
station is a footpath, Old Hungerford footbridge.
Three men were waiting there at intervals that wet and blusterous
night to watch the Burboro’ train come in. They saw it from a position
which enabled them, had the opportunity presented, of shooting into the
carriage.
Tillizini did not know this, but he could guess it. It was not an
unlikely contingency.
On the crowded station of Charing Cross he was safe enough. Moreover,
there were two men, who had spent the afternoon unostentatiously
wandering about the station, who picked him up as he came through the
barrier.
He gave one of them a little nod, which none but the keenest observer
would have noticed.
The two Scotland Yard men, whose duty it was to shadow him in London,
walked closely behind him, and remained upon the pavement outside until
he had entered the waiting taxicab.
CHAPTER V
THE STORY OF THE RED HAND
Professor Antonio Tillizini is a name around which has centred the
fiercest controversy. No scientist is ever likely to forget his
extraordinary paper read before the Royal Society at Sheffield. It was
entitled, prosaically, “Some Reflections upon the Inadequacy of the
Criminal Code,” and was chiefly remarkable from the layman’s point of
view in that the professor in the course of his address calmly admitted
that he had found it necessary to kill ten criminals at various stages
of his career. He was sufficiently discreet to offer no further
information on the subject, and, though his enemies endeavoured, on
the clue he had offered them, to bring at least one crime home to the
Italian, they were unsuccessful.
More significant of the trend of public opinion, Tillizini was not
deprived of his chair of anthropology at the Florence University,
nor did London society bar its doors to the foreigner who was a
self-confessed slayer of men.
More than this, it is known that in preparing its Criminal Law
Amendment Bill of 19--, the government sought the advice of this
extraordinary man.
But it was in connection with the remarkable outburst of crime of a
peculiar character that the young man who spent six months of the year
in England and six months in his beloved Italy, and of whom the epigram
had been perpetrated that he thought in English and acted in Italian,
that he first came largely into the public eye.
It was said of him that all the secrets of the Borgias were known to
him; there were dark hints amongst the superstitious of necromancy, and
this reputation, generally held among the Italian colony in London,
served him in good stead when the days came for him to tackle the Red
Hand.
The organization known as the Red Hand had been driven from America
by the heroism and resourcefulness of Teurn, the famous Cincinnati
detective. Laws, drastic to the point of brutality, had been
instituted; the system of inquiry known as the third degree had been
elaborated so that it only stopped short of the more extreme methods of
the Spanish Inquisition, to cope with the increase in blackmail and
murder in which the Red Hand specialized.
There was a lull in this type of crime after the electrocution of the
Seven Men of Pittsburg, but the silence of the Red Hand was broken at
last.
It was in December, 19--, that Carlo Gattini, a wealthy Italian living
in Cromwell Square Gardens, received a curt typewritten request that
he should place a thousand pounds in bank-notes under a certain seat
in Hyde Park. The hour and the date were mentioned, and the letter was
signed by a small red hand, evidently impressed by a rubber stamp.
Mr. Gattini smiled and handed the letter to the police.
At their suggestion he replied through the agony columns of _The
Times_, agreeing to the request; a package was made up and placed
beneath the seat described, and four Scotland Yard men waited through
the whole of one dismal evening for the Red Hand messenger. He did not
come. He either suspected or knew; so there the matter should have
ended by the severe and unromantic police code.
But on the following morning another letter came to the Italian. It was
brief:
We give you another chance. Go to the police again and you are a dead
man. Place £2,000 in notes in an envelope and leave it under the first
bush in your garden.
In alarm, Gattini went to the police. They pooh-poohed any suggestion
of danger. Plainclothes men were concealed in the house and in the
garden; other secret service men were stationed in the house opposite,
but again the messenger did not come, nor did the Italian receive any
further communication.
On Christmas Eve Mr. Gattini returned from the City after a busy day.
He was a widower, and lived alone, save for four servants--an elderly
woman who acted as cook, a housemaid, and two menservants.
At 7:30 his valet went to his room to announce dinner. Gattini’s door
was locked.
The man knocked, but received no answer. He knocked again, without
result.
He returned to the servants’ hall and announced his failure, and he
and the chauffeur went to the front of the house and looked up at the
window of Mr. Gattini’s room.
It was in darkness.
It happened providentially that a Scotland Yard man had called in
at that moment in connection with the threatening letters, and the
servants confided their apprehensions.
The three men went to the door of Gattini’s room and knocked loudly.
There was no reply, and, putting their shoulders to the door, they
burst it open.
One of them switched on a light.
At first they saw nothing; the room was apparently empty ... then they
saw.
The unfortunate man had been struck down as he sat at his dressing
table. The knife that had cut short his life was missing, but it was
evident that he had died without a cry.
This was the first murder--there were others to follow.
The request for money came to Sir Christoforo Angeli, a rich banker and
a naturalized Britisher. He treated the threat as lightly as Gattini
had done.... He was shot dead as he stood at his window one spring
afternoon, and no man but he saw the murderer.
Again there came a lull, but it was evident to the police, ransacking
Europe for a clue, that the apparent inactivity was less significant of
a cessation on the part of the gang than it was of their successes. Men
in terror of their lives were paying and keeping information away from
the police. A reign of terror was in progress, when, exhausting the
wealthier members of the Italian colony, the gang turned its attention
to other sources of income.
Henry S. Grein, a wealthy Chicago broker known throughout Europe
for his art collections, received the stereotyped demand. He phoned
the police, and Scotland Yard sent its best man to interview the
millionaire at the Fitz Hotel, where he was staying.
“I pay nothing,” said the millionaire. He was tall and hard-faced, with
a mouth like a rat trap, and the secret service man knew that here the
Red Hand had come up against a tough proposition. “It is your business
to see that I do not get killed; you may make what arrangements you
like, but I am going to offer a reward of $20,000 for the arrest of the
gang, or the leader.”
Then began that extraordinary feud which first opened the eyes of the
public to the condition of affairs which existed.
The history of Grein’s fight with his assassins on the roof of the Fitz
Hotel, his shooting down of the man Antonio Ferrino who had gained
admission to his bedroom, the abortive attempt to blow up the Fitz
Hotel by dynamite; all these facts are so much history. It was on the
morning that Henry S. Grein’s body was found floating on the Thames off
Cleopatra’s Needle that the government turned to Tillizini.
On the evening of his return from Burboro’, Tillizini sat at his broad
desk working out a side issue of the problem. The red glow from the
shaded lamp by his side gave his face a sinister appearance which
ordinarily it did not possess. It was a thin and deeply lined face,
a little sallow and a shade bluish about the jaw and upper lip; the
nose was long and pinched, the eyebrows black and arched; but whatever
unpleasant impression the somewhat Mephistophelean features may have
produced, that impression was forgotten in the pleasant shock which
came to the observer who saw Tillizini’s eyes.
Italian as he was in every feature, his eyes were almost Irish in their
soft grayness; big and clear and luminous, the long black lashes which
shaded them gave them an added beauty.
With his left hand resting on his book to keep the stiff volume open at
the page, he reached across the table to a gold cigarette box, took a
long, thin cigarette, and lit it at the small electric lamp which stood
at his elbow.
The room wherein he sat was lofty and spacious. The ceiling and the
fireplace were as Adam’s magic art had left them. The walls were half
panelled in dark oak, and, save for a small water-colour sketch of a
woodland scene on the left of the fireplace, they were innocent of
pictures.
Along one wall ran a bookshelf that stretched from the outer wall to a
door near the window. The windows were long and narrow and were hung
with dull red curtains. There was coziness in the big gilt screen by
the fire, in the roomy club chair, the soft thick carpet, and the tiny
clock that ticked musically over the mantel-shelf.
Tillizini read steadily, the smoke of his cigarette rising in blue
coils to the ceiling.
Suddenly he closed the book with a snap and rose noiselessly.
He glanced at the clock: it was an idle glance, for he knew the time.
He had an eerie subconsciousness of the hour, be it day or night.
He walked to one of the three windows and looked out upon the
Embankment.
He saw a crescent of cold lights that stretched toward Blackfriars and
was intersected dimly by the bulk of Waterloo Bridge. Across the river
was an illuminated sign imploring him to drink somebody’s wine at his
own expense; farther down a tall tower of reappearing and vanishing
light urged him to the consumption of the only whisky worth while.
The professor watched without a smile.
Suddenly a bright splash of light started and was as suddenly
extinguished. Again it flamed--dazzling, white, palpitating light--and
again vanished.
Tillizini stepped back quickly. From a cupboard he took a
strange-looking lamp and a coil of wire. He rapidly affixed the plugged
end with a connection in the wall, then he switched out all the lights
of the room and waited. Again the bright light flickered on the
opposite bank.
The professor touched a key at the base of the lamp, and from its
conical-shaped projector shot a swift beam of soft blue light.
Twice he did this, when the light on the other bank began to wink
furiously and at a break-neck pace. Long wink, short wink, long, short;
without a pause it raced onward with its urgent message.
As the lamp spoke Tillizini answered it shortly. He read the message
as easily as though it were in a printed book, for he knew English as
well as he knew his mother tongue, and, moreover, he was an expert in
such matters.
The light on the other shore ceased talking, and Tillizini closed the
window at which he had been standing, replaced his projector in his
cupboard and the little table on which it had stood against the wall.
Then he drew down the blind and switched on the ceiling light.
He stood over his desk and wrote rapidly the purport of the message he
had received. It was written in small cramped signs which might have
been, and probably were, a shorthand which he alone understood. He had
scarcely finished when the musical thrill of an electric bell arrested
him. He pressed an electric push inserted in the leg of the table,
hastily slipped his notebook into a drawer, and turned as the door
opened.
The neatly dressed manservant ushered in a visitor.
“Inspector Crocks,” he announced.
Crocks was short and stout and jovial. His head was as bald as a
billiard ball, his peaked beard was shot with gray; he was a bourgeois
of the bourgeois; yet, for all his unpromising appearance, Tillizini
had no delusions where this smart policeman was concerned.
“Sit down, Inspector”--he indicated a chair. “A cigarette?”
The inspector smiled.
“Too mild for me,” he said. “I’m a pipe smoker.”
“Fill up,” said the professor, with a little smile.
He did not insult his visitor by offering him tobacco, for he knew
that it was an attention which all pipe smokers resent, calling into
question as it does their own discrimination and judgment.
“Well?” he asked, as the other slowly filled his polished briar.
“Your countrymen--if you will pardon me--are not helpful; they are a
little--er----”
“They are liars,” said the young professor calmly. “All men are liars
when they are afraid, and I tell you these poor devils are afraid in a
way you cannot understand. Not for themselves, but for their children,
their wives and their old mothers and fathers.”
He rose from the table and walked slowly up and down the room.
“These men you want are merciless--you don’t know what I mean by
merciless. It is a word which to you signifies a certain unjust
harshness, cruelty, perhaps. But, my friend ... cruelty!” He laughed, a
bitter little laugh. “You don’t know what cruelty is, not the type of
cruelty which flourishes on the shores of the Adriatic. I won’t tell
you, it would spoil your night’s sleep.”
The inspector smiled.
“I know--a little,” he said quietly, puffing a cloud of smoke and
watching it disperse with a thoughtful eye.
“Your idea,” the professor continued, “is to catch them--very good. And
when you have caught them to secure evidence against them--very good
again,” he said dryly; “one is as easy as the other. Now my view is
that they are vermin, society’s rats, to be exterminated without trial
and without remorse.”
He spoke quietly; there was no trace of emotion in his voice or in his
gesture. The hand that went searching for a cigarette in the gold box
was steady; yet Crocks, no sentimentalist, shivered.
“I know that is your view,” he said, with a forced smile, “yet it is
not the view which finds favour in this country; it is a view which
would get you into serious trouble with the authorities and might even
bring you to the Old Bailey on the capital charge.”
The professor laughed--a low, musical laugh. He ran his fingers through
his gray-streaked hair with a characteristic gesture, then sank into
the padded chair by the desk.
“Well,” he said briskly, “what have you discovered?”
The inspector shook his head.
“Nothing,” he said; “that is, nothing worth while. The gang is
unreachable--the people who can give information are dumb brutes;
they are either afraid, or in league with the Red Hand. I’ve tried
threatening them; I’ve tried bribing them; neither is of the least use.”
Tillizini laughed softly.
“And the Red Hand--have they made any further move?”
The inspector’s hand went to his pocket. He drew forth a bundle of
papers enclosed in an elastic band. From this he extracted a letter.
“This has been addressed to the San Remo Ambassador,” he said. “I won’t
trouble to read it to you; it is the usual sort of thing. Only this
time it is a child who is threatened.”
“A child!”
Tillizini’s black brows met in an ugly frown.
“That is their principal card,” he said slowly. “I wondered how long
they would keep their hands off the children. What does he threaten,
our unknown?”
“Abduction first--murder afterwards, if the abduction fails.”
Tillizini took the letter from the other’s hand and read it carefully.
He held the paper to the light.
“This is the American gang--I thought we’d wiped them out, but it was
evidently a bigger organization than I credited.”
The musical little bell rang overhead. Tillizini raised his eyes,
listening. After the shortest interval the bell rang again.
The professor nodded. A big black box stood at one corner of the
table--he unlocked it, the detective watching him curiously. With the
turning of the key and the lifting of the lid, the front fell away,
revealing three sedate rows of crystal phials.
Tillizini took one from the front, slipped it in his pocket, then bent
down and pressed the bell in the table.
The door opened to admit a servant, followed by a fresh-coloured
young man evidently of the working class. Crocks looked at him,
saw he was an Englishman, and wondered in what way the two men had
become acquainted. The young man accepted a seat at the invitation of
Tillizini.
“Well, my friend,” said the professor pleasantly, “you are willing to
go on with this matter?”
“Yes, sir,” said the other firmly.
Tillizini nodded.
“I got your message,” he said. He turned to the inspector.
“This man’s name is Carter,” he said briefly; “he is an out-of-work
plumber, unmarried, without family, and prepared to take risks. You
have been in the army, I think?” he said.
The newcomer nodded. He sat uneasily on the edge of his chair as though
unused to good society, and with obvious embarrassment.
“I advertised,” Tillizini went on, “for a man who was willing to risk
his life; I’m paying him two hundred pounds, and he is earning it.”
Crocks was mystified.
“Exactly what does he do?” he asked.
“That,” said Tillizini, with a slow smile, “is exactly what he does not
know.”
He turned to the other man, who grinned sheepishly.
“I carry out instructions,” he said, “and I’ve had a hundred pounds.”
“Lucid enough, Mr. Crocks; he does nothing except live in a lodging
in Soho, make his way to a wharf over there”--he pointed out of the
window--“every evening at about this hour, signal to me a fairly
unintelligible message, and afterwards walk slowly across Westminster
Bridge, along the Embankment, up Villiers Street, and so to my house.”
He paced the room with long, swinging strides.
“He has taken his life in his hands, and he knows it,” he said. “I have
told him that he will probably be assassinated, but that does not deter
him.”
“In these hard times,” said the ex-soldier, “a little thing like that
doesn’t worry you; it is better to be assassinated than to be starved
to death, and I have been out-of-work for twelve months until Mr.
Tillizini gave me this job.”
“He receives two hundred pounds,” Tillizini went on, “by contract. I
have paid him one hundred. I shall pay him another hundred to-night and
his expenses. Probably,” he said, with a little smile, “he may escape
with minor injuries, in which case I shall congratulate him heartily.”
He turned briskly to the man.
“Now let me have all the papers you have got in that pocket. Put them
on the table.”
The man dived into his various pockets and produced scraps of paper,
memoranda, pocket-books--all the literary paraphernalia of his class.
From his pocket Tillizini took the phial he had removed from the
medicine chest. He unstoppered it, and a pungent, sickly odour filled
the room. With the moist tip of the stopper he touched each article the
man had laid on the table.
“You will get used to the smell,” he said, with a smile; “you won’t
notice it after a while.”
“What is it?” asked Crocks curiously.
“You will be surprised when I tell you,” said the other. “It is double
distilled attar of roses, the vilest smell in the world in its present
stage, and this bottle I have in my hand is worth, commercially,
twenty-five pounds.”
At a nod from Tillizini, Carter gathered up his papers and replaced
them in his pockets.
“You have a revolver?” asked the professor.
“Yes, sir,” replied the man. “I went down to Wembley the other day and
had some practice.”
“I hope that no occasion will arise for you to have practice nearer at
hand,” said Tillizini dryly.
He rang the bell, and the servant came.
“Get Mr. Carter some supper,” he ordered. He nodded to the man as he
left.
“What is the meaning of this?” asked Crocks.
“That you shall see,” said the other.
“But I don’t understand,” said the bewildered detective. “Why should
you give this man so large a sum to do nothing more than send electric
signals to you every evening?”
Tillizini sat down at his desk.
“Mr. Crocks,” he said, “it would be false modesty on my part if I
pretended that my movements escape the notice of the Red Hand. I am
perfectly satisfied in my own mind that I do not go in or out of this
house without the organization being aware of the fact. Every step I
take is watched; every action of mine is considered in the light of a
possible menace to the society.
“This society knows that every evening I am engaged in the exchange of
messages with a man south of the Thames. The very mysteriousness will
naturally appeal to the Latin temperament, and its significance will be
magnified. On the second night you may be sure that Carter was located.
You may also be sure that he was watched from the wharf and followed
to this house.”
A light began to dawn upon the detective.
“Then Carter is a decoy?”
“A two-hundred-pound decoy,” said the other gravely. “He knows the
risk, I am paying him a big sum; fortunately, he is something of a
signaller, and so he is able to tell me through a code of our own
what is happening on the other side of the river. I freely admit,” he
smiled, “that so far nothing has happened worth recording.”
“They will kill him,” said Crocks.
“They will try,” said the other quietly; “he is a pretty resourceful
man, I think. I am hoping that nothing worse will happen than that they
will seek a gentler method of solving the mystery which surrounds him.
Hallo!”
The door was thrust open suddenly, and the servant flew in.
“I’m very sorry, sir----” he stammered.
“What’s the matter?” Tillizini was on his feet. “Is it Carter?”
“No, sir--he’s in the kitchen. I heard a ring at the bell, and the
girl”--he went on incoherently--“a girl sort of fell in. What am I to
do, sir?”
“Fell in?” Tillizini stepped quickly past him and went down the broad
stairs, two at a time, to the hall.
The man had had sufficient presence of mind to close the door after the
strange visitor’s appearance.
Lying on the carpeted floor of the hall was the form of a woman.
Tillizini, practised as he was in every subtle move of the gang,
stepped forward cautiously. She lay under an overhanging light, and he
was able to see her face. He lifted her and walked quickly back up the
stairs with his burden.
Crocks was standing in the doorway of the room.
“What is it?” he asked.
Tillizini made no reply. He carried the limp figure and laid it on the
settee by the wall.
“What happened?” he asked the man shortly.
“I heard the bell ring, sir,” said the agitated servant, “and I went to
the door thinking it was----”
“Never mind all that--be brief,” said Tillizini.
“Well, I opened the door, sir, and she must have fainted against it.
I’d just time to catch her and to drag her into the hall before she
went off.”
“Did you see anybody outside?”
“No, sir,” said the man.
“You closed the door behind you, I see,” said Tillizini approvingly.
“Really, I shall make something of you, Thomas.”
From his medicine case he took a slender phial, removed the stopper,
and wetted the tip of his finger with the contents. He brushed this
along the lips of the unconscious girl.
“She has only fainted,” he said, while with a quick, deft hand he felt
the pulse, and his sensitive fingers pressed the neck ever so slightly.
The drug he had given her had a marvellously rapid effect.
She opened her eyes almost immediately and looked round. Then she
caught sight of Tillizini’s face.
“Don’t try to speak,” he said gently. “Just wait. I will get you a
little wine, though I don’t think you will require it.”
She tried to sit up, but his firm hand restrained her.
“Lie quietly for a little while,” he said. “This gentleman is a
detective from Scotland Yard. You need have no fear.”
“Are you Dr. Tillizini?” she asked.
He nodded.
“My husband--you’ve seen him?” she whispered.
Tillizini nodded again.
“Yes, yes. He was the man who was sentenced at Burboro’.”
A look of pain passed across the white-faced girl.
“Yes, he was sentenced,” she said weakly. “He was innocent, but he was
sentenced.”
Tears welled into her eyes.
Tillizini had the narrow blue phial in the palm of his hand. Again he
tilted it, and again the tip of his little finger swept across the lips
of the girl. She knit her brows.
“What is that?” she said. “It is very sweet stuff.”
The professor smiled.
“Yes, it is very sweet, my child,” he said, “but it will do you a lot
of good.”
His prediction was verified, for in a few minutes she sat up--calm and
collected.
“I heard you had been to see my husband,” she said. “I wanted to talk
to you, but you had gone, and then I thought I would write to you, and
I was starting my letter when a gentleman came----”
“Which gentleman?” asked Tillizini.
“The Italian gentleman,” she replied--“the one my husband said had
asked him to go to Highlawn. Oh, I knew it wasn’t true that he burgled
Sir Ralph. Poor as we were, he would never have done such a thing.”
Tillizini nodded, and raised his hand with a reproving little smile.
“Yes, the Italian came, and what did he want?”
She was calm again.
“He gave me some money,” said the girl, “and told me that he would see
that my husband was released, and I was so grateful because I felt so
sure that he would go to Sir Ralph and tell him, and George would be
let out of prison.”
She was little more than a child, and the men who listened were too
full of pity to smile at her naïve conception of Sir Ralph’s power.
“And then,” she went on, “he asked me a dreadful thing.”
She shuddered at the thought.
“He asked me to do that for which my husband was convicted.”
“To go to the house?”
“Yes,” she nodded.
“And to take a package?”
Again the girl nodded.
“And you were to do this on Friday night?” His eyes were blazing with
excitement.
“Yes,” she said. “How do you know?”
A little look of fear came into her face. She was out of her depth in
these plots and machinations, this simple country girl who had entered
into the responsibilities and trials of marriage at an age when most
girls were at school.
“I know,” said Tillizini.
He walked up and down the apartment, his hands thrust in his pockets,
his head bent.
“You won’t be able to do it now. They’ve watched you come up here; I
suppose that’s why you came to me?”
“Yes,” she said. “I am so afraid of these men. We are quiet country
folk. We have never been mixed up in anything like this.”
Tillizini considered a moment; then he took down the telephone receiver
and gave a number. He had a brief conversation with somebody in Italian
and he spoke with an air of authority. He hung the receiver up again.
“I have telephoned for a lady to come here to take you to her house,”
he said. “I don’t think these people will bother you at all, because
you know nothing which can possibly affect them one way or the other. I
suppose,” he said, turning to Crocks, “that you can give me a couple
of men to look after this girl till she reaches the house where I am
sending her?”
Crocks nodded.
“I’ll take her myself,” he said jovially. “I am worth two men.”
Tillizini smiled.
“I sometimes think,” he said, “that you are worth three. The one you
are, the one you can be, and the one you never appear to be!”
Crocks chuckled.
CHAPTER VI
THE THREE
If you walk from London Bridge along Tooley Street, through
Rotherhithe, you come to Lower Deptford. Passing through this, you
reach Deptford proper, and leading off from the left you will find
a long straight road which crosses the Ravensbourne, and connects
Greenwich--the one quaint corner of London which steadfastly refuses to
be entirely modernized--with its more busy neighbour.
The connecting road once accommodated the well-to-do middle class of
Deptford, in the days when Deptford was a prosperous port, and when
swarthy seafaring men with gold earrings recalled the brave days when
the Great Peter himself worked in the shipyard and lived in a piggish
fashion at Evelyn House.
The houses are narrow-fronted and of a set pattern. There are
overhanging wooden canopies to each of the doors; in some one finds
traces of oak panelling, but usually the present-day tenants have
utilized such of the wood as they can detach for the purpose of
lighting their fires. For what was once Deptford’s glory is now
Deptford’s slum. The great houses ring with the shrill voices of
innumerable children. Floor after floor is let out in tenements, and
in some cases a dozen families occupy the restricted space which, in
olden times, barely sufficed to accommodate the progeny of opulent ship
chandlers.
When Mill Lane was Rowtonized, its hovels, its insanitary dens, and
its quaint little cottages pulled down by a wise borough architect,
the Italian colony which had made its home in that unsalubrious
neighbourhood moved northward and distributed itself along the road of
ancient respectability.
In the main, the Italian made a good neighbour--quiet, sober,
inoffensive; his piano-organ, stalled in the confined area of the back
yard, was, perhaps, a nuisance to men who loved to sleep far into the
morning, but he gave little offense otherwise.
In one of these houses, on an upper floor, three men were sitting round
a table. A large _fiasco_ of Chianti occupied the place of honour
upon the table, and glasses had been set for the men by one who was
evidently the host. The windows were heavily curtained and shuttered,
the door itself had been edged with felt by the careful tenant, and as
a further precaution against interruption there sat outside the door,
two steps down the narrow stairs, the dark figure of a man whose duty
it was to see that the conference was not disturbed.
The host was a tall man, immensely powerful: his black hair was cropped
short; his face, lined and seamed, was half hidden by a bushy black
beard.
His shirt opened to show a patch of hairy chest, and the powerful arms
revealed by the rolled-up sleeves spoke of enormous strength. They
spoke truly, for Tommasino Patti bore in his own country the nickname
“Il Bue,” which signifies, “The Ox.”
It was as “Il Bue” that his companions knew him, though there was
nothing bovine in the evil but intelligent face, nor in his lithe,
quick movements.
The man on his left was short and stout; clean-shaven save for a black
moustache, carefully twisted to a curl at either end. He was short of
breath, and spoke like one with chronic asthma, in deep, rumbling,
wheezy tones.
Facing Il Bue was a young man who contrasted remarkably with his
companions. For, whilst the giant was careless to the point of
slovenliness in his attire, and the stout man but little better, this
third member of the council was dressed with exquisite care.
He was a slim and graceful young man of medium height; handsome, with
his olive skin, his fine forehead, and his slight dark moustache. He
wore a suit of simple cut, which fitted him perfectly. His cravat was
of dull black silk, and the only jewelry he wore was a black pearl in
his cravat and a thin gold chain across his waistcoat.
He was a man who had been carefully valeted, and, from the dove-gray
spats on his boots to his manicured fingertips, he was correctness
personified. His silk-lined overcoat lay carefully folded over the back
of the chair, with a soft black felt hat on top. He himself lounged in
the one comfortable chair which the room boasted--and his legs thrown
over the arm of the chair displayed a glimpse of gray silk socks. He
looked little more than twenty, though he was in reality much older.
His attitude toward the others was one of amused curiosity. From time
to time he examined his beautiful nails with solicitude, as though he
found them much more interesting than the conversation. And yet the
talk was startling enough.
The stout man had finished the story of his adventure.
“And, signors,” he said appealingly, “I, myself, could have secured
this jewel, but for the restrictions which your excellencies placed on
me.”
He spoke alternately to Il Bue and the young man at the foot of the
table.
“Why,” he asked, in extravagant despair--“why is it necessary that
you should employ a third person--one without finesse, like this man,
Mansingham, who blunders through the house, awakes the servants, and is
arrested? It was tempting Providence, signors; it would be almost as
much a temptation to employ the girl.”
The young man smiled.
“You are a fool,” he said.
They were speaking in liquid Italian, and the youth’s voice was soft
and melodious.
“Have we no example of the folly of acting otherwise?”
He raised his eyebrows, and for a moment a baleful light shone in his
eyes, changing the whole character of his face.
“Listen, my little man.” He tapped the table before him and spoke with
quiet emphasis. “What may seem simple to you is not so simple to us.
It is the rule of Our Friends, when such a raid is carried out, that
the person who abstracts and the person who immediately receives shall
be unknown to one another. Moreover,” he said, carefully choosing
his words, “it is necessary, since a certain happening which you may
remember, that the medallion, if medallion it be, shall be received by
two of our brethren, and not by one.”
He smiled.
“I repeat,” he said, “‘And not by one.’”
He looked at Il Bue, still smiling, and then at the stout man.
“A year ago,” he said, “we had marked down something we required.
It was a medallion. One of those two medallions, I know, contains a
secret which will make us rich. We commissioned a brother skilled
in scientific abstraction to remove that jewel. It follows, my dear
Pietro, that the same set of brains which can wield, with great skill,
a set of tools for the removal of locks or the forcing of glass cases
may be entirely inefficient or inadequate when it comes to the removal
and the safeguarding of the treasure. In stealing, as in all other
sciences, the specialist has the advantage; we instruct one specialist
to take the medallion from its case--wherever it may be--we employ two
other specialists jointly to receive that jewel and to take it to a
place of safety--watching each other the while. You follow me?”
The stout man nodded grudgingly, and the young man went on.
“The gentleman,” he said, with grim humour, “who received that precious
relic, of which the society stood in the greatest need, disappeared
with it. He was false to his oath, false to his kin; he demonstrated
the falsity of the English adage that there is honour amongst
thieves--and indeed there is not--and, although eventually we found
him, we never found the jewel.”
He took a flat gold cigarette case from his pocket, took out a
cigarette and lit it.
“It would have been no satisfaction to us to remove this erring friend.
It was fortunate that he saved us the trouble by removing himself. We
did not find the jewel,” he repeated. “That most desirable thing he
had, in his panic, handed to some peasant or other. That peasant we
have at last located.”
He exchanged a swift glance with Il Bue, and the big man nodded
emphatically.
“Whether we shall get the jewel remains to be seen,” continued the
exquisite young man, puffing rings of smoke at the ceiling. “At any
rate, the necessity for taking precautions in the matter of receiving
these articles which are so precious to us, and which are located with
such great pains and with such labour, must be fairly obvious.”
He looked at his watch.
“Now, I have little time to spare. Let me see what is to be seen.”
The big man rose and walked heavily across the room. He put his hand
under the pillow of a truckle bed, which stood in the corner, and
pulled out a long, flat box. He brought it to the other and opened it
with a key which hung about his neck.
It was a curious collection which met the young man’s eyes. The box was
almost filled with lockets of every conceivable shape and description.
There were lockets of gold and of silver, lockets carved from crystal,
lockets so encrusted with jewels that it was impossible to tell what
was the subsidiary metal. Some bore a painted miniature, others were
brilliant with enamels.
The young man fingered them with quick and skilful hands. He lifted
them one by one from their box, laid them in the palm of his hand, and
turned them; and, as he examined, he rejected.
He finished his labours at last.
“They are very valuable,” he said, “but not of the value I hoped. We
have to search still further. I believe that the locket which is in the
possession of this foolish man Morte-Mannery is more likely to be the
one we seek than any other. We must lose no time and spare no pains to
secure it.”
He took a flat leather wallet from his inside coat pocket, opened it,
and removed a sheet of paper. There was a drawing in pencil.
“This is it,” he said, “if any is.”
He passed the design to the stout man.
“You observe those curious arabesques, that Cupid, that tiny hoofed
devil? That is the master’s own work.”
He spoke with enthusiasm. For one moment the sinister object of the
chase was lost sight of in his artistic appreciation of the design.
“There are two such lockets in the world.”
He spoke more quickly now.
“One we may secure to-night. The other on Friday. We must make some
arrangements. If necessary I will go down myself and receive the
locket. This drawing”--he pointed to the paper--“almost decides me. We
can afford to slacken our efforts elsewhere and concentrate them upon
Burboro’. By the way, what money is wanted?”
“A thousand English pounds,” said the stout man breathlessly.
The young man laughed.
“It is absurd to ask for a thousand pounds for something which may be
of no value whatever,” he said. “You must promise her--where is she, by
the way?”
“She will be in town to-night, signor,” said Pietro.
The young man nodded.
“She is very faithful and enthusiastic,” he said. “A curious woman, our
Lisa,” he mused, as he rose.
Il Bue jumped to his feet and assisted him with his overcoat.
“You will probably find her useful, to-night.”
“Why don’t you trust her to get the jewel from this pig’s house?” asked
the tall man gruffly.
The young exquisite smiled.
“My poor man,” he said, “if I do not trust a brother, why should I
trust---- No,” he said, a little harshly, as he stood by the door
buttoning his coat, “I take no more risks. My father warned me against
any such folly, and I neglected his warning. I have had to pay the
price for my neglect. Who is outside?” he asked suddenly.
“Beppo,” said Il Bue. “I had to have somebody who was reliable. Beppo
loves the dark.”
“He is an unwholesome beast,” said the young man lightly. “He would cut
my throat or yours for a piastre.”
“That may be,” said the other, with a growl, “but a man whose neck is
in danger, and whose life depends upon keeping faith, is one to employ
for such work.”
They opened the door, the brawny host leading the way, carrying a hand
lamp. A figure sat crouched on the stairs, his knees drawn up and his
head bent low.
“A pretty sentry! He’s asleep!” said the young man.
Il Bue leaned down and grasped the man by the neck.
“Wake up, you dog,” he hissed. “Is this the way----?”
Then he stopped, for the head fell back jerkily, and a handle of a
dagger protruding from his heart gave them a complete explanation of
his silence.
Yes, there he lay--this man, who had perjured himself clear of the
scaffold in two countries--this jackal of a villainous confederacy--and
the three men stared at him in amazement and horror.
The former state could be applied only to the young man, who, without
any pause, without any other sign of emotion, continued buttoning his
gloves.
“There is only one man who could have done that,” he said thoughtfully,
“and that man is Antonio Tillizini.”
CHAPTER VII
THE GOLDEN ANTONIO
“Signor--for the love of heaven!”
The Strand was crowded with a matinée throng, and the idle folk which
promenade that famous thoroughfare before the Easter holiday filled the
sidewalks.
To the man in a hurry the indolence of the loitering, sauntering
pleasure-seekers was anathema. Frank Gallinford was that man in a
hurry, for the 6:30 Burboro’ express waits for no man, and, though
Charing Cross was in sight, there remained only two minutes to get
through the crowd, into the station, and on to the platform.
He cursed the idlers deeply and earnestly as he elbowed and pushed
his way forward. To leave the sidewalk was to court disaster, for
the roadway was blocked with traffic, and, moreover, an intelligent
authority had had it dug up at its busiest portion and railed off to
half its width for repairs.
Frank Gallinford had stepped from the curb into the roadway, and from
the roadway on to the curb again, dodging between the hawkers who
vended their wares; he had sprung away from the wheels of devastating
motor cars and buffeted stout and leisurely gentlemen in his effort to
reach the station on time, but he seemed as far from his objective as
ever.
Then he suddenly felt his sleeve clutched and the words:
“Signor--for the love of heaven!”
They were gasped rather than spoken, and the language employed was
Italian.
Frank stopped and looked round with a bewildered frown. Who spoke to
him in Italian in this most English Strand?--and who knew that he was
acquainted with the language?
The man at his elbow was unquestionably Latin. His long, cadaverous
face, covered with a week’s growth of beard, was working almost
convulsively in his agitation. The big black eyes that stared at him
from beneath two shaggy brows blazed as only Southern eyes can blaze.
In a moment the Englishman’s anxiety to catch his train was forgotten.
The soft accents which he knew so well and loved so well came to his
ears like the first sigh of the breeze that ripples the Adriatic on
summer nights. It stirred memories of a simple and charming peasantry,
it brought visions of the marble palaces of the old Venetian nobility.
“Well, my friend?” he asked kindly.
“I cannot speak to you here,” said the man, dropping his voice and
speaking quickly. “You remember me, signor?--Romano--I was your foreman
on the harbour works at Cattaro.”
Frank remembered, and his hand dropped in a friendly salute on the
other’s shoulder.
“Remember you, Lorenzo mio!” he laughed. “Why, how ever could I forget
you! You were the man who swam out to me when I was seized with
cramp--confound you, you saved my life!”
A faint smile flickered across the lips of the little Italian, and then
the look of anxiety came again.
“Follow me,” he whispered, “this is urgent; you do not know, you cannot
understand.”
With no other word, he plunged into the throng, and Frank Gallinford,
keeping him in sight, followed.
Romano turned the first corner he reached. It was a steep street which
led down into the Adelphi.
Here the stream of traffic dried up. Into the gloomy depths only the
most experienced travellers, who knew this contributed a short cut
to the District Railway station, ventured, and the two men had the
thoroughfare to themselves.
When they had gone fifty yards the Italian stopped, and Frank observed
that he chose a spot midway between two street lamps where the light
was dimmest and most uncertain.
“Signor,” he said, speaking rapidly, almost incoherently, “you know
me a little. I am a mason, and I was brought to London to work on the
new Italian restaurant in Regent Street. I have no friend in London,
no one to whom I can turn--and I am in despair”--he wrung his hands,
and his voice, though he kept it low by sheer effort of control, was
shrill--“and then I saw your face--your strong, calm English face in
that great crowd, signor--like a saint, signor....”
Frank was too accustomed to the extravagance of the Italian compliment
to feel embarrassed, though he had never overcome the sense of shyness
which comes to the more phlegmatic Anglo-Saxon in face of florid
flattery.
“I am not feeling particularly angelic, Lorenzo,” he said, with a
rueful smile as the recollection of his lost train occurred to him.
“Listen, signor,” the man went on. “Years ago, when I was younger,
I was in New York--and for a joke, signor--I swear it was no more
than a youthful jest--I joined a society. I took oaths--I thought
nothing of it. Then I went away to my own country, later to
Montenegro, then to Italy again--and now to London. And, signor,
they have found me--my society. And they tell me I must do horrible
things--horrible--horrible.”
He covered his face with his hands and groaned. Frank was puzzled.
He knew of these secret societies, had indeed seen their milder
manifestations. He had endured an exasperating strike on more occasions
than one as a result of some offense given to an official of a society.
But never had he glimpsed the tragedy, the underlying horror, of these
mysterious associations.
He laid his hand gently on the other’s arm.
“My friend,” he said soothingly, “you need not worry--this is England.
These things do not happen here. If you are threatened, go to the
police----”
“No, no, no!” protested the man, frantic with terror; “you do not
understand. My only hope is to get away ... if I could reach the
Argentine--come--come!”
He dragged the other with him to the nearest street lamp, fumbling in
his pocket the while.
“They want me for many reasons,” he said, “and for this most of all.”
His coat was one of those heavy cloth coats which Italian labourers
wear, the corners of the pockets ornamented with tiny triangles of
rusty black velvet. From the depths of a pocket the man produced a
little case. It looked like a jewel case, and the Englishman observed
that it was very new. Romano’s trembling hand sought for the catch. He
found it after awhile, and the satin-lined lid flew open. On a bed of
dark blue velvet lay a little medallion.
“San Antonio,” said the Italian, in a hushed, eager voice.
It was a beautiful piece of work. The background was made up of small
diamonds, the Saint with the Babe was in gold relief. This was no
stamped and minted impression, but a piece of rare and delicate carving.
“Signor,” said Lorenzo, “a month ago a man who was a friend of mine
brought this to me--how it came to him I do not know. He asked me to
take care of it, and in time--these were his words, signor--to restore
it to----”
A motor car came swiftly down the street, and the Italian looked around
apprehensively.
“Take it!”
He thrust the case into Gallinford’s hands, clicking it close as he did
it.
“But----”
“Take it--ah!”
The car drew up abreast of them and, as the lacquered door swung open,
Romano shrank back against the railings.
Two men alighted, and they were followed by a woman.
She was tall, slim, graceful. Frank could not see her face, for it was
thickly veiled, but her voice was low and sweet.
“This is the man,” she said, and pointed to the cowering Italian.
The two men sprang at Romano and caught him by the arms. There was the
click of handcuffs.
“What is the meaning of this?” asked Gallinford, though, with a sinking
heart, he anticipated the answer.
“This man has taken a jewel of mine,” the lady replied.
“What does she say--what does she say?” asked the Italian. The
conversation had been in English; Frank translated.
“It is a lie--a lie!” screamed Romano, struggling desperately as they
dragged him toward the car. “Save me, for God’s sake, signor!”
The Englishman hesitated. He had all the national repugnance of a
“scene.” He knew that the Italian would at any rate be safe at the
police station--and if he were guilty, as it seemed probable, he needed
no protection. The whole story was a cock-and-bull invention.
“Where are you taking him?” he asked.
“To Marlborough Street,” said one of the men gruffly.
“Go quietly, Lorenzo,” said Frank, turning to the struggling man. “I
will follow you.”
But the prisoner had gone limp; he had fainted.
They lifted him into the car and the men jumped in after. The woman
waited expectantly. Then Frank saw a second car behind. As the first
car manœuvred to turn, he heard voices in altercation. Lorenzo had
recovered from his swoon; there was a scuffle, and the Italian’s head
appeared at the window.
“Signor!”--there was agony in his voice--“tell Signor Tillizini----”
A hand was placed over his mouth, and he was dragged back as the car
rolled-up the hill and into the slow-moving traffic.
Frank waited. He half expected the woman to speak. Then it occurred to
him that she would regard him, if not as an accomplice, at least as a
friend of the arrested man, and he went red.
She stepped lightly into the second car. This did not turn, but made
its way downhill.
It was on the point of moving off when he remembered with a shock that,
if he was not the thief, he was all unwillingly a receiver. The jewel
was still in his pocket.
The car was on the move when he realized this and sprang to the door of
the carriage.
“Madame,” he said, “a word--I have something to say--I have----”
Through the open window of the car he saw the woman draw back.
“I want you----” he began, and jumped back as he saw the flash of
descending steel.
He was just in time.
The thin stiletto aimed at him struck the edge of the window, and
Frank, temporarily dazed, stumbled to his knees in the muddy road as
the car jerked ahead and vanished round the corner of Adam Street.
One glimpse he got of a white hand still clasping the hilt of the
quivering poignard--a white hand on a finger of which glowed a square
black opal.
He rose slowly to his feet, dumbfounded. He was furiously angry. She
had evidently mistaken him for a robber.
He brushed the mud from his knees with a handkerchief, and collected
his thoughts, swearing softly.
Here was he, a prosaic young engineer on his way to meet his fiancée
in prosaic Burboro’, engaged in an adventure which was three parts
melodrama and one part comedy.
“This comes from listening to plausible Italians,” he said savagely. He
made his way to the Strand and hailed a taxicab.
“Marlborough Street police station,” he directed.
He would rid himself of this infernal jewel and clear himself, at any
rate.
The sergeant returned his greeting curtly, taking in the mud-stained
figure with professional suspicion.
“Romano?” he said. “No, we haven’t a Romano here.”
“He has just been arrested by two of your men,” said Frank.
“No warrant has been executed for a man of that name,” said the
sergeant, shaking his head. “Just wait a minute and I’ll ask Bow
Street.”
He went into an adjoining room, and Frank heard the tinkle of a
telephone.
By and by the officer returned.
“Neither Bow Street nor Vine Street know anything about it,” he said.
Briefly the young man told the story of the arrest, omitting only
the fact that the jewel reposed in his pocket. He had no desire to
find himself detained. With Lorenzo to confirm his story and with the
prosecutrix present to identify the jewel, it would be different. And
he had, too, an overpowering desire to explain to the murderous lady,
in person, his honourable intentions.
“No, sir,” the sergeant went on, “we’ve no Italians--we’ve had enough
of them since the Red Hand started operations in England. But since Mr.
Tillizini began working for Scotland Yard, they haven’t been so busy.”
“Tillizini?” cried Frank, with a start.
The sergeant nodded.
“That’s the gentleman,” he said complacently; “if you want to know
anything about Italian criminals, you’d better see him--108, Adelphi
Terrace; anyway, you’d best come back again--the C.I.D. men may be
working independently.”
Frank walked in the neighbourhood of the station until ten o’clock that
night. He sent a wire to his host and dined at a Piccadilly restaurant.
The clock was striking the hour when he again mounted the steps of
Marlborough Street station.
The sergeant was not alone. Three overcoated men were talking together
in one corner of the room.
“Here he is,” said the sergeant, and the three turned and surveyed the
young engineer gravely.
“What was the name of that Italian you were inquiring about?” asked the
sergeant.
“Lorenzo Romano,” replied Frank. “Have you found him?”
The officer nodded grimly.
“Picked him up in the Embankment Gardens--an hour ago,” he said.
“Where is he?” asked Frank.
“In the mortuary,” said the sergeant, “with twenty-five knife wounds in
his body.”
CHAPTER VIII
THE RARE COLLECTION
Marjorie Meagh sat at breakfast with her uncle.
Sir Ralph was in an unusually irritable mood. Breakfast was never a
pleasant meal for him, but his fault-finding was generally concentrated
upon the domestic shortcomings of his wife and the quality of the food.
Now they took a wider range. He put down his paper suddenly and
savagely.
“I wish to heaven Vera wouldn’t go dashing off to town,” he said.
Although he was a domestic tyrant of a common type, he stood in some
little awe of his young wife. On three occasions in their lives she
had startled him by the vehemence of her rebellion, and with every
explosion he had grown less self-confident and less satisfied with his
own capacity for commanding the situation.
Marjorie looked up from her letters.
“Vera is making a serious study of the drama,” she said. “You
must remember, Uncle, that if by any chance she does succeed as a
play-wright, it will mean an immense income to her.”
She was very tactful. She knew that monetary considerations influenced
her uncle. It was Vera’s career, which she had discovered two years
before, when a little play, written for a charitable entertainment, had
met with recognition at the hands of the critics.
Though it had pleasantly surprised her husband to the possibility of
his having discovered a self-supporting wife, it had been also a source
of constant irritation to him. It meant expense, constant visits to the
Metropolis, the cost of seats at a theatre, though this latter expense
had happily been spared him of late by the discovery of a relation
engaged in newspaper work, who had provided complimentary tickets.
But it meant opening the flat in town; it meant the detachment of a
servant from a household where the domestic arrangements, as planned by
Sir Ralph, were so devised as to fully occupy every moment of the time
of every person engaged.
Sir Ralph took up the paper only to put it down again a moment later.
“That scoundrel, Mansingham, has appealed,” he said. “It is monstrous.”
The institution of the Court of Criminal Appeal was a sore point with
Sir Ralph. He felt that its creation had been expressly designed for
the purpose of annoying him. He had written letters to _The Times_
about it, and had expressed himself, at such public functions as gave
him opportunity, in no gentle terms. It was remarkable, under the
circumstances, that the Court of Appeal continued to sit.
“It is monstrous,” he said again. “It is a slight upon the men who are
engaged in carrying out the work of administering criminal law.”
His anger came in little spasms. He had a fresh grievance every few
moments. Again his paper came down after an interval.
“That young man, Gallinford, did not arrive last night, Marjorie,” he
said severely. “The young men of to-day seem to be lamentably deficient
in good manners.”
“He wired, Uncle,” protested the girl. “He said that he was detained in
town.”
“Bah!” snapped her uncle. “That isn’t good enough. I am a man of the
world, Marjorie. These flimsy excuses do not suffice for me, and I
advise you, if you desire to be happy--and the only way to be happy,”
he said parenthetically, “is to be without illusions--to view these
unsupported excuses with suspicion. He is a young man,” he went on,
elaborating his grievance, “newly arrived in England after a long
absence in a barbarous country----”
“In Italy, Uncle,” she murmured. “It isn’t exactly barbarous, is it?”
“Barbarous?” he said explosively. “Why, here are two Italian murders in
one day!”
He flourished the paper in support of his contention.
“Of course it is barbarous! And he comes back to civilization after
a long absence, to a beautiful girl, and I admit that you are that,
Marjorie,” he said comfortably, with an air of one who was partly
responsible for her beauty, “and instead of rushing, as he should, and
as young men did in my day, to his fiancée, he breaks his journey in
town! It is perfectly inexcusable!”
She did not defend her lover. She knew how valueless such arguments
were with her uncle. He was entirely without inclination to reason--at
breakfast time, at any rate.
For the rest of the meal he grumbled spasmodically behind the paper.
He reminded her irresistibly of a dog with a bone. From time to
time he fired little sentences at her--sentences which had neither
beginning nor end, and were generally associated with the government’s
shortcomings.
Suddenly she heard the grind of carriage wheels coming up the carriage
drive, and jumped from the table. She gave one glance through the
window and, without a word to her uncle, flew from the room.
He glared after her in astonishment. In a few minutes she came back,
with a delicate flush on her face and laughter in her eyes, leading a
tall, broad-shouldered young man, brown of face and smiling a little
uneasily, for he did not contemplate the coming interview with any
great sense of joy.
“This is Mr. Gallinford, Uncle,” said the girl. “You have met him
before, haven’t you?”
Sir Ralph not only had met him before, but did not wish to meet him
then. He was in no mood for introductions to strange people. He had,
moreover, a grievance against this young man who had so slighted his
hospitality. He greeted Frank Gallinford with a grunt in which he
expressed in his bluff, hearty English way, as he imagined it, at once
his welcome and a fore-taste of the reprimand which was coming.
“I am glad to meet you, sir,” said Frank.
He held out a big, hearty hand and shook Sir Ralph’s.
“I owe you an apology for not having come last night.”
Sir Ralph inclined his head. There was no doubt whatever about the
apology being due.
“I had a little adventure,” Frank went on, and proceeded to relate the
chief events of the previous evening.
In spite of the fact that he had made up his mind to accept no
explanation as being adequate, Sir Ralph found himself listening with
keen interest. The girl’s face showed her concern.
“Oh, Frank,” she said, in a shocked voice, “how terrible! Was he
killed?”
Frank nodded.
“I had an interview with the famous detective--what is his name?”
“Tillizini?” said Sir Ralph.
“Yes,” said Frank, “that was his name. A remarkable chap. Of course, I
handed the locket over to the police, and Tillizini has it now.”
“It’s very extraordinary,” said Sir Ralph, with a puzzled frown. “Your
description of the locket sounds very much like one I have in my
collection.”
A sudden panic of fear passed over him. What if this was the famous
locket? What if it had been abstracted without his noticing it?
“Excuse me,” he said.
Half-way to the door he turned. “Will you come along with me?--perhaps
your description of the medallion may be useful. I have got a fear----”
He shook his head.
“You don’t think it’s yours?” said the girl.
“I don’t know,” said Sir Ralph. He was obviously agitated. They
followed him from the room to his study--a handsome combination between
that and the library. From a steel drawer in his desk he took a key and
led the way again upstairs.
Sir Ralph was more than an amateur collector. Whatever his judgments
might be on the bench, there were few who could dispute his knowledge
of those articles of virtu which it was his delight to collect. The
Morte-Mannery collection, though a small one, was famous. It was Sir
Ralph’s pleasure, from time to time during the year, to show his
treasures to the great connoisseurs of Europe.
The joy of possessing something which nobody else had, or if they had,
only in a minor degree and in a less valuable form; and, moreover,
to hold these wonders of dead craftsmen which were coveted by less
fortunate people, which is the basis of every true collector’s pride,
was the great passion of Sir Ralph Morte-Mannery’s life.
He had devoted forty years to securing and arranging the hundred and
fifty lockets which formed his collection. The room in which they
lay had been specially constructed with a view to resisting fire and
burglars.
It was an open secret that, in rebuilding Highlawn after he had
acquired it, the whole scheme of renovation had circled about the
collection room. It was more like a prison than a museum, thought
Frank, as he followed his conductor through the narrow entrance guarded
with steel doors faced with rosewood.
It was lighted by a large window, heavily barred, the glass itself
being set with strong steel network. Burglar alarms of the most
ingenious character rendered entrance without detection almost
impossible. Floors, wall, and roof were of reinforced concrete. One
long case ran the length of the room, a strip of carpet on each side
forming the only attempt that had been made at comfort. The cases
themselves were under heavy wooden shutters, and these Sir Ralph
unlocked.
It was a disappointing display to the average man. Row after row of
medallions, dull gold, silver, jewels, enamels. There was nothing to
excite the enthusiasm of any other than a connoisseur.
Very quickly, one by one, Sir Ralph unshuttered the cases, his anxious
eyes running over the neatly ticketed rows.
“No,” he said, after a survey, “nothing has gone. I thought from your
description that my Leonard----”
The fire of the enthusiast came to his eyes. With hands that shook a
little he unlocked one case, and lifted out a small gold medallion.
“Why!” exclaimed Frank in astonishment as he took it in his hand. “This
is the very locket which the man gave me!”
Sir Ralph smiled.
“That is impossible,” he said. “Impossible! Only two such lockets were
known, and one has been irretrievably lost.” He held the little jewel
in his hand gingerly. “This and its fellow were made by the greatest
artist that the world has ever known, Leonardo da Vinci. The date is
probably 1387, and the design is Leonardo’s own. It expresses something
of the master’s genius. As you know, he was a man who was not satisfied
with painting pictures; there was no branch of art, from sculpture to
the very mixing of paint, in which he did not interest himself. He was
a doctor and a chemist of no mean qualities, and it was after the great
plague in Milan in 1386 that he made the two lockets, of which this is
the only one extant.
“One he gave to his patron, Il Moro, the usurper of the Duchy, and
the other he gave a year or two subsequently to Cæsar Borgia. They
were both commemorations of his patron’s escape from the plague. You
will observe on the back”--he turned the jewel over gently--“there
is an allegorical representation. You see the picture of the little
fiend?”--he pointed it out with his little finger. “That represents the
sickness which visited the whole of Italy. You see the angel?--That
must represent his ‘unconquerable patrons.’ What the other signs
are”--he smiled, and this cheerless room saw all the smiles that Sir
Ralph was prepared to bestow upon the world--“are incomprehensible to
me. Probably Leonardo was a Futurist.”
He chuckled at his own harmless jest, and the girl listened to him
wonderingly, for he was a different man in this atmosphere. She had
never seen him so before; he was human and tender and keen.
“The other medallion,” Sir Ralph went on, “was stolen from the Dublin
Museum. The thief was traced, after a great deal of trouble, to a
cross-Channel boat; he was seen to go on the boat to cross from Harwich
to the Hook of Holland. There must have been some of his confederates
on board, for in the night a great outcry was heard in one of the
cabins, and the detective who watched him saw him fleeing along the
deck pursued by two foreigners. Before they could either arrest the men
who were following or capture the man himself, he had leaped overboard,
and with him, it was presumed, had passed the second medallion.”
“What was the meaning of it all?” asked Frank.
Sir Ralph shook his head.
“We don’t know. It was supposed at the time that he was endeavouring
to give the jewel to some of his confederates, and that in the act of
doing so he was seen. The men who were chasing him that night on the
ship gave a plausible explanation; they said they thought he was mad
and endeavouring to commit suicide, and they were trying to prevent
him.”
He turned the jewel over again and looked at it lovingly before he
replaced it in its case.
“Whatever it was your unfortunate man had,” he said, “it was not the
fellow to this.”
Outside, he was himself again, cold, hard, commonplace, but that little
glimpse of his true character revealed much to Marjorie. She understood
now the ferocity of the sentence he had passed upon Mansingham. His
collection was more than wife or child, more precious than ambition;
his passion was strong enough to override his sense of justice.
He looked at his watch with a frown. He had remembered one of the
unpleasant facts of life.
“Vera has not returned. I thought she would have come down by the same
train as you.”
“I was the only passenger for Burboro’, as far as I can remember,” said
Frank.
Sir Ralph looked at his watch again.
“There’s another train in by now,” he said, “she ought to be here.”
He had hardly spoken the words when Vera’s voice was heard in the hall
below, making inquiries of the servants.
“Oh, there you are,” she cried.
She looked up as the party descended the broad stairway into the hall.
For a moment a look of wonder came into her eyes at the sight of Frank.
“You have never met Mr. Gallinford, have you?” asked Marjorie, as she
introduced them.
“I am very glad to meet you now, at any rate,” said Vera cheerfully.
She was glad, too, that there was some other interest to temper her
husband’s annoyance. That he should be annoyed she took for granted. It
was the atmosphere which invariably met her on her return from town.
He looked again at his watch, and then at her, and she understood the
significance of the examination.
“I am so sorry,” she said carelessly. “I lost the fast train and had
to take the slow one. It was very annoying. I think my watch must have
been wrong.”
Vera had a very beautiful voice, low and rich, and full of beautiful
qualities.
“You’ve been seeing our wonderful collection?” she said.
Sir Ralph snorted. He hated any claim to partnership in respect to his
medallions, and Vera knew it. It was her oblique reply to his unspoken
attack.
“You haven’t seen the best of them; you ought to see the belts,” she
said.
“That is a collection which is not sufficiently complete,” interrupted
Sir Ralph stiffly, “to be examined. Really, Vera, I wish you would not
embarrass me by these references.”
He strode off to the library, leaving them alone.
She laughed softly.
“He’s a great trial sometimes,” she said, half to herself.
Then she turned to the girl, and Marjorie noticed with pleasure that
the moodiness and depression of yesterday was entirely dissipated. She
was at her brightest; her ready smile came and went.
In a few moments she was chatting with Frank Gallinford about Italy as
though she had known him all her life.
“It must be a quaint country,” she said. “You know, I’ve a peculiar
affection for the land. I am half Italian myself.”
“Are you really?” It was Marjorie who asked the question with girlish
delight. “Oh, I say, how romantic! Don’t you ever want to stab Uncle
with a stiletto or something?”
She laughed, but Frank’s smile was a trifle grim. He had too vivid a
recollection of somebody striking at him with a stiletto to derive the
full amount of amusement out of the question. That was part of the
story which he had not deemed it necessary to tell.
“Oh, no,” drawled Vera, “I never feel sufficiently bloodthirsty.”
Suddenly Frank’s face went drawn and gray. He stepped back with a
little cry.
“What is the matter?” asked Marjorie, in alarm.
He passed his hand over his eyes.
“But really--aren’t you ill?”
He shook his head.
“No, it’s a little passing giddiness,” he muttered. He was seized with
an overpowering anxiety to get away.
“I forgot,” said the girl sympathetically, “you’ve had such a trying
night. I’ll see if your room is ready; perhaps if you were to lie down
for an hour or two you would be better.”
He nodded, and, raising his head, met Vera’s curious eyes.
“If you will forgive the impertinence,” he said slowly, “that is a
curious ring of yours.”
She turned white and put her hands quickly behind her back; but too
late--he had seen the square black opal--for the second time in
twenty-four hours.
CHAPTER IX
COUNT FESTINI
“Why, Miss Meagh, how perfectly delightful!”
Marjorie turned with a start. She was leaving Victoria Station and had
stopped at a bookstall to buy a few magazines.
She had been visiting Ida Mansingham, the wife of the convict, who was
in a nursing home. She had had a bad nervous breakdown, and it was due
to the generosity of Hilary George and Tillizini that she had been
placed in comfort.
A young man was standing before her, his white teeth showing in a smile
of sheer delight.
“How extraordinary! I have not seen you for two months. Where have you
been hiding?”
She offered her hand with some embarrassment. Her last parting with
Count Festini had been such that it seemed that they could never meet
again on terms of commonplace friendship. His passionate declaration
still rang in her ears. He had come to Ireland for the hunting, had
fallen--so he declared--hopelessly in love with her, and had declared
his passion.
He had stormed and raved when she had gently refused him; yes, this
well-bred and perfectly mannered young man had behaved more like a
madman than a sane product of twentieth-century civilization.
And here he was as though nothing had happened.
“I tried to find where you were,” he said.
His eyes had the tender softness of the South. His voice was without
any trace of foreign accent. He was, as usual, she observed,
faultlessly dressed, with none of the ostentation or errors in taste
which so often in the foreigner mar the good tailor’s best efforts.
“I have been away in the country,” she said, a little hurriedly.
She was expecting Frank at the station. He might come up at any moment.
She wondered what would be the effect on this volcanic young man if she
introduced the big Englishman as her fiancée.
“And I have been tied to town,” he said. “Oh, what a deplorable place
London is for those whose business keeps them there! It is delightful
to the visitor, to the dilettante, but for the unfortunate dweller by
compulsion, terrible.”
He threw out his hands in mock despair.
“London is a bad habit,” he went on, “and the ideal one, for it is a
bad habit one can get away from when one likes.”
“Few bad habits are like that,” she smiled.
He had apparently completely recovered from his infatuation and was
genial only to a point of correctness.
Some thought occurred to her, and she smiled.
“Do I amuse you?” he said, with a twinkle in his dark eyes.
“I was thinking,” she said, “how curious it is that I seem to have
met nothing but Italians--to have lived almost in an atmosphere of
Renaissance the last few days.”
His eyes steadied.
“That is very curious,” he said quietly. “I could have almost said the
same. And who are the Italians who have been favoured by association
with the most lovely lady in England?”
She raised her hand.
“Please,” she said softly, “let us forget.”
“I could never forget,” he said.
He spoke calmly enough for her ease and comfort.
“But I have agreed myself to forgo hope. After all,” his shoulders
rose imperceptibly, “one cannot have all the things one wants in this
world. I have most of them, yet one which is more than all the others
together is denied me. That is my punishment.”
He smiled again. “But you did not answer me.”
She hesitated. She had no wish to talk of Tillizini. He was one of
those mysterious individuals engaged in a business of such a character
that it seemed that any reference to him would be a betrayal. She saw
the absurdity of this view almost as quickly as she formulated the idea.
“One of them,” she said, “was Professor Tillizini.”
His cigarette was half-way to his mouth. He checked its course for the
fraction of a second.
“Signor Tillizini,” he drawled. “How very interesting! And what had the
great Antonio to tell you? Did he ask for your finger-prints, or take a
sample of your blood, or express any desire to measure your head?”
“Oh, no,” she said, with a laugh. “He didn’t do anything so dreadful.
Do you know him?”
“Slightly,” he said carelessly. “Everybody in Italy, of course,
knows Tillizini, and I should imagine almost everybody in England is
similarly informed. And where did you meet this great man?” he bantered.
“At Burboro’,” she said. “He came to visit my uncle.”
“At Burboro’?”
Again she noticed the slight emphasis to his words.
He was looking at her steadily, speculatively, she thought. He
was quick to realize that his attitude was a little more than
disinterested, for he gave a short laugh.
“You think I am inquisitive, do you not?” he said. “But don’t you know
that everything associated with you has immense interest for me? You
see,” he said apologetically, “I have never met your uncle. I didn’t
know that you had such a relative--though most people have. At any
rate, I have discovered where you are staying,” he said, with laughing
menace. “I have only to run to ground this uncle of yours, and the rest
will be easy. I shall come to Burboro’,” he threatened, with one slim
finger raised in mock earnestness, “and go round asking ‘Has anybody
seen Miss Marjorie’s uncle?’ It will create a little sensation, will it
not?”
“I will save you that trouble,” she smiled. “My uncle is Sir Ralph
Morte-Mannery.”
“Oh, indeed,” he nodded his head. “I thought it might be.”
“Why?”
“Well, you know, he is a great man; one hears of him. He is a judge;
and something of a collector too.”
She had seen a tall form walking toward them, and went pink again.
“I want to introduce you, Count Festini,” she said, “to my fiancé, Mr.
Frank Gallinford.”
She averted her eyes from his face, and did not see the sudden
tightening of his lips or the curious, quick droop of his eyelids.
“This is Count Festini,” she said.
The big Englishman put out his hand and grasped the other’s heartily.
He was almost head and shoulders above the dapper young man, but, to
Frank’s surprise, it was no soft, effeminate grasp which was returned.
It was a grip which reminded him of Tillizini’s vise-like grip.
Frank was a typical Englishman--tall, broad-shouldered, lean of face
and limb; gray, honest eyes shone with pleasure to meet a friend of his
beloved.
“I wish you would bring us just a handful of your beautiful Italian
sunshine, Count,” he said. “In this city of gloom, and depression, and
inquests----”
“Inquests?” interrupted Marjorie.
Frank nodded.
“Yes, on that unfortunate man who was murdered. I have got to give
evidence to-day.”
“Which man is this?” asked the count, interested.
“The man who was found in the Embankment Gardens.”
“Oh!”
It was only an ejaculation, but Frank looked at him in surprise.
“Did you know him?” he asked.
“I only know what I have read in the papers,” said the other calmly.
“May I ask, Mr. Gallinford, exactly what part you played in that
tragedy?”
“I was the man that was with him when he was kidnapped,” said he. “I
have felt awful ever since. If I could only have kept with him I might
have saved his life.”
“Or lost your own,” said the count. “These people are not particular
about a life or two. You have lived long enough in my country to
realize that we do not place the exaggerated value upon human life that
you Northerners do.”
“You cannot have an exaggerated value on human life,” said Frank
gravely. “It is the most precious thing in the world.”
The count shrugged his shoulders.
“That is a point of view,” he said. “It is not mine. For my part I
regard life as the least valuable of our possessions. It is a huge
gramophone record on which all the strident and unpleasant sounds of
life are received and held at one and the same time. And the whole
makes a tremendous discord,” he said, speaking half to himself. “The
music of life is drowned, overwhelmed, deadened by the harsher notes of
strife and ambition. For me,” he smiled, “I think that the clean record
is best.”
“What is the ‘clean record’?” asked Frank.
“Sleep,” said the other, a little bitterly, “or death. It is one and
the same.”
He offered his hand with a charming smile.
“I am keeping you both,” he said. “Where may I have the pleasure of
seeing you again, Miss Meagh?”
“I shall be staying with my uncle for another month,” she said.
He nodded pleasantly to Frank, and, turning, walked quickly away. He
stopped at a little cigarette kiosk on the station, and watching them
out of the corners of his eyes he saw that they were passing slowly
from the station. He turned, when they had disappeared through one of
the exits. His face had no longer that pleasant, soft quality which had
distinguished it a few minutes before. It was hard and set, and his
eyes glowed angrily. He stood watching the exit through which they had
disappeared; then he went to a telephone box. From this he emerged in
five minutes, collected, suave, and cheerful.
It was Thursday, the night before the attempt would be made. If the
locket was not abstracted, he thought he knew a way by which it might
be attained--and it was a pleasant way to him. The only fear he had
in his mind was whether he would resist the temptation which would
arise in the experiment. Whether his love of gain would overmaster
the growing passion which fired his breast for this cold, beautiful
Englishwoman.
He had learned enough now to know that the second locket was in
the possession of Tillizini. It was a house which, under ordinary
circumstances, might be burgled; but now it was Tillizini’s. The name
inspired awe amongst the lawless men who were working for their illicit
profits.
Before now the very sight of this professor’s thin, refined face had
stayed the assassin’s dagger, from very fright. The very mention of
Tillizini was sufficient to cause a stir of uneasiness amongst these
villains, in whom the dictates of fear and pity were dead.
But the name had no such effect upon Count Festini. He was superior to
fear of any man. He came from a line of men who, for hundreds of years,
had dominated one secret society or the other. The Festinis went back
to the bad old days of Italian history, when assassination was a quick
and easy method of ridding members of his family from embarrassment.
It was in his blood. It was part of his composition. Young as he was,
he had been the directing force of the terrorizing organization which
had worked the Eastern states of America into a ferment of terror.
Tillizini, swift and terrible in his working, wise in his judgment, had
broken that organization.
Festini was no fool. He had recognized that the game was up in
America. There was no use in running his head against a brick wall.
He had foreseen the possibility of transplanting the strength of his
government to England. They were a soft people, used to crime of a
certain type, crime which was generally without violence. It was the
last stand of the Red Hand. Its members had been driven from every
country in Europe. It was only a matter of time when lethargic England
would drive and stamp the organization out of existence.
But, in that short space of time, Festini was preparing his coup--the
greatest and most terrible of his wicked plans. He would strike, not
individuals, for that was too dangerous--he would blackmail the nation,
but first he must obtain possession of those lockets.
He sprang into a cab outside the station and drove to a little street
in Soho. It was a tiny restaurant where he knew he would find Il Bue.
There was no time to be lost.
The man he sought had not arrived, and the count sat down and waited,
ordering a plate of soup from the obsequious head waiter.
The big man came in shortly afterward.
“Talk in English as much as you can,” said Festini.
“The man is a brother,” replied the other.
“That does not matter,” said the count. “Talk in English, if you
please. You have sent your men to Burboro’?”
The other nodded.
“You have followed my instructions?”
“Yes, _padrone_. The men I have sent looked like Englishmen. They are
the best we can get.”
“Trustworthy?”
The other nodded, and smiled crookedly.
“As trustworthy as men could be who are up to their eyes----” He gave a
significant little gesture, and Festini smiled a little.
“I don’t think we shall have any difficulty,” he said. “When you get
the locket, bring it straight to me. You will be at the station to
receive them. Take it from their hands; do not leave the station until
you have it in your hand. I shall be waiting for you at Deptford. Now,
what of Tillizini?”
A look of fear came into the big man’s eyes.
“Tillizini?” he said uneasily.
“Yes,” said the other, impatiently. “What do you fear? He is only a
man, my Ox. One of the lockets is in his possession. It is in that big
room of his that overlooks the Thames Embankment. Now, can that be
secured?”
The big Italian shook his head vigorously.
“Signor,” he said earnestly, “it cannot be done. There is not one of
our men who would dare to. You know he is no man--this Tillizini--he is
a devil. Remember Beppo Ferosti! Only the other night, killed on the
stairs, by a man who heard all we said. And we none the wiser! It is
not possible, signor, to trap this man. We have tried.
“Did we not try in New York?” he went on vehemently. “We bribed the
waiter of his hotel, we drugged him, we went to his room at night
and dragged him out of bed, wrapped him in a sheet and threw him
down the elevator shaft. Signor, he dropped eight stories,” he said
impressively, “and when we went later to see him at the bottom, it was
not him at all. It was poor Antonio Barricci--the man who had been in
charge of all the arrangements--who had planned his death. We had not
seen his face in the dark, because we dared not carry lights. We simply
took the drugged form from the bed and carried it to the elevator shaft.
“Do you remember how we sent the man from Florence to kill him? We
never saw that man again.” The big man’s voice shook a little, for
the man from Florence had been his brother. “Tillizini sent me his
hand--that is all--by parcel post! Just the hand of the man from Rome,
with the rings of the brotherhood still upon his finger. No name to
identify the sender, and the post-mark ‘Paris.’
“It cannot be done, I tell you,” he said, “the man is not human.”
Festini was listening with an amused smile.
“He is sufficiently human, my friend,” he said softly, “only he is more
clever than the men who have been pitted against him. Now I propose,
myself, to arrange matters with Signor Tillizini. I have tried every
one of our agents, and they have all failed. I must take up my share of
the work. Here is a dangerous enemy who may spoil our plans. To-night,
whilst our friends are reconnoitring the ground at Burboro’, I myself
will work independently.”
“Shall I come with you?” asked the other eagerly. “Signor, I would give
my life for you.”
He spoke with sincerity. There was no questioning the honesty of the
doglike faithfulness of this big man.
Again Festini smiled.
“I will work alone, my good friend,” he said, and tapped the other on
the shoulder with his white hand approvingly. “These things must be
done with subtlety if they are to succeed.”
He rested his head upon his hands for a few minutes, deep in thought.
The other waited patiently, his deep-set eyes filled with love and
admiration for the master whose house he had served all his life.
“There is a man,” said Festini suddenly, “who is a sort of agent of
this Tillizini. Now, you shall go to him and kill him.”
He spoke as though it were a very ordinary transaction which he had
asked the other to undertake.
Il Bue nodded. “It will be simple,” he said. “I can do it to-night.”
Festini was still thinking.
“No,” he said, after awhile, “do not kill him. Take him away to the
house by the river. You know where I mean?”
The other nodded.
“When you have got him safe, send a letter to Tillizini saying that you
have him, and demanding a ransom--say of £500--and leave the rest to
me.”
The big man rose.
“I will see about this at once, signor,” he said. “God prosper you.”
With which commendation he left the restaurant.
CHAPTER X
A WAY OF TILLIZINI’S
Tillizini was sitting in his room, examining a number of photographs
that he had received that morning from Florence, when the note came to
him.
He opened and read it.
It was brief and to the point:
We have taken your spy. You will give us five hundred English pounds,
and he shall be released.
By order of
THE RED HAND.
He folded it carefully.
“Is the messenger still waiting?” he asked.
“No, sir,” said the servant. “It was a boy who handed it in.”
Tillizini examined the note again and smiled. He rose from the table
and went to the telephone which stood on a small bracket near the wall.
He gave a Treasury number which is not in the telephone book--it is
only to be found in the small volume issued to cabinet ministers and to
public officials--and in a few seconds he was connected with Inspector
Crocks.
“They have taken my man,” he said; “at least they say they have, and I
suppose they are speaking the truth. They demand £500 for his immediate
release.”
“What are you going to do?” asked the inspector’s voice.
“I’m going to release him,” said the other. “Though I have my doubts as
to whether they really want the money.”
In a few minutes they were driving to Carter’s lodgings. The landlady
gave him all the information he required, and another hour’s search
revealed the place where his man had been captured. As he thought, it
was on the wharf whence he usually sent his make-believe flash signals.
There were signs of a little struggle. Some children, playing in the
dark street from which the wharf was gained, had seen four men, very
drunk as they thought, staggering to a waiting motor car.
* * * * *
There is a little club in Soho where men with certain political views
may be found between the hours of eleven at night and five in the
morning.
At a quarter to twelve the stout man Pietro, who had formed the third
at the Deptford conference, entered the club and, after a fruitless
inspection of its members, came out again.
He walked through Soho, crossed Oxford Street, and entered one of the
slummy thoroughfares which abound in the neighbourhood of Tottenham
Court Road.
He let himself into a gloomy house with a key and closed the door
behind him.
His room was on the ground floor. He unlocked the door, went in, and
again closed and locked it before he struck a match.
His hands were fumbling with a matchbox when there was a quick,
blinding flash, and he found himself standing in a circle of light
thrown by an electric light.
“Don’t move,” said a voice, “or I will kill you.”
The intruder spoke in Italian.
“You may light the gas,” said the unknown. The circle of light followed
the alarmed man as he moved to the centre of the room, reached up, and
ignited an incandescent burner.
“Tillizini!” he gasped.
“It is I,” said the other easily. “Your doors are shut--yes. Your
windows are shuttered, of course. Sit down.”
Shaking in every limb, the man obeyed. The revolver in the professor’s
hand was an excellent excuse for obedience.
“Where have you been to-night?”
“That is no business of yours,” growled the other. “You have no right
to come into my room. What have you stolen?”
“Don’t be foolish,” said Tillizini calmly. “Stand up again. Put your
hands above your head. Thank you, signor.”
His deft fingers searched the other, removed a revolver from the hip
pocket and a knife from inside the waistband of his trousers. These
he laid on the table, first jerking open the chamber of the revolver
scientifically. There was a little clatter of cartridges as they fell
on the floor.
“Now I want your hand,” he said. “Hold it out.”
Hesitatingly, the other man obeyed, his fearful eyes fixed upon the
calm face of the other.
Tillizini leaned over and raised the hand to his face. His sensitive
nostrils dilated. He had no difficulty in detecting the scent of the
attar of roses with which his spy’s papers had been impregnated.
“Yes,” he said, “you are the man I want.”
The fear deepened in the stout man’s eyes.
“What do you mean?” he gasped.
He had a superstitious dread of this undefeatable man. With the
ignorance of his kind he had endowed him with powers which were almost
supernatural.
“I want the man you helped to kidnap to-night, or if you did not help
to kidnap, assisted in searching,” said the Italian pleasantly.
“It’s a lie,” said the other. “I know nothing about a kidnapped man.”
“The man you searched to-night,” continued Tillizini unemotionally,
“whose pockets you ransacked, whose papers you examined. Where is he?”
The look of fear in the man’s face was ludicrous.
“How do you know?” he gasped.
“I know,” said Tillizini. “That is sufficient.”
He waited for the stout man to speak, but in whatever fear he stood of
the detective, his terror of reprisal from his comrades was a greater
factor.
“I can tell you nothing--nothing,” he said sullenly.
“Then you shall come on a little journey with me,” said Tillizini. “We
will leave the light, if you don’t mind. Get up.”
He went to the door and, standing with his back against it, unlocked it.
“You will go first,” he said.
Outside the street was deserted, save for a number of children who were
playing noisily in the roadway.
“To the right,” said Tillizini curtly.
The man obeyed.
Drawn up by the opposite side of the pavement a little way along was a
pair-horse brougham. Opposite this Pietro waited till Tillizini’s voice
stopped him.
“Get in.”
Again the man obeyed and Tillizini followed. He closed the door, and
the prisoner noted that he gave no instructions as to where the man
was to drive. Evidently that had already been arranged. His wonder
was dissipated when he found the carriage driving along the Thames
Embankment. He was going to Tillizini’s house. He pulled himself
together. He was half losing his nerve. After all, Tillizini could not
torture him here, in the heart of London, and he a government official.
It was to Adelphi Terrace that the carriage drove and pulled up before
the detective’s house.
“Get out.”
The man followed his instructions. Tillizini’s ring was instantly
answered by a servant. The two men stepped into the hall.
“Has anybody been?” asked the detective, in English.
“No, sir, except a man called with a parcel for you.”
“A parcel?” He looked thoughtful. “A large parcel?” he asked idly.
“No, sir, a smallish parcel,” replied the man. “He would not leave it
until I signed for it.”
“I see,” said the detective, “and so you left him at the hall door
whilst you went down to get a pencil?”
The man smiled.
“Oh, no, sir, I took the parcel from him--there it is on the hall
table. I wouldn’t leave the door.”
Tillizini’s lips twitched. In the most tragic moments of his life he
could find sources of amusement. He scarcely gave the parcel more
than a passing glance. Instead, his eyes rapidly surveyed the floor.
He opened the door and looked at the lock. It was a patent lock with
a small catch. From the slot into which the bevelled snap caught he
extracted two little threads. He examined them briefly and kept them
between the finger and thumb of his left hand. All the time he kept his
hold upon his revolver, though the servant did not observe it.
“Very good, Thomas,” he said, as he closed the door again, “you may go.
_Marchez, mon amí._”
This last was to his prisoner. Pietro obeyed. He mounted the broad
staircase to the dark landing above, and Tillizini stepped close to his
prisoner.
“Go through that door,” he said.
Pietro did so.
He flung the door open, hesitated a moment, then stepped in. When his
prisoner’s hand was on the knob of the door, Tillizini spoke. He was
addressing, apparently, a person below.
“All right, Thomas,” he said loudly, “you may bring up that parcel now.”
Then he pushed Pietro into the room. It was in complete darkness, as he
expected. The captive stood hesitating in the doorway for a fraction
of a second, Tillizini behind him, waiting. He had only to wait for an
infinitesimal space of time. From the darkness in the room four shots
rang out in rapid succession and Pietro pitched forward on his face, a
dying man.
Tillizini had moved swiftly under cover of the doorway. He offered
no view of himself to his hidden enemy. He heard the quick steps of
Thomas. In the hall below were governing switches by which any room in
the house could be illuminated. A quick order from Tillizini, and the
lights blazed up in his room.
He sprang in, leaping over the twitching form of the fallen man. The
room was empty; it offered no cover to any person in hiding. There was
no need to search beyond the open window. The man who had waited there
had already prepared and carried into effect his escape.
Tillizini turned off the switch and the room was in darkness again.
He flew to the window. A slender rope had been fastened to the leg of
his heavy writing table. It extended across the room, through the open
window, and now swung to and fro in the breeze below.
The street was empty. There was no profit in searching further. He
closed down the window and phoned the police.
The man on the floor was too far gone for help. He was dying when
Tillizini reached his side. With the help of the servant and a hastily
summoned policeman he was laid on the settee, where a few nights
before the helpless and innocent victim of the Red Hand’s plotting had
lain.
Tillizini’s busy hands plucked phial after phial from his medicine
chest.... The man revived a little, but it was evident, long before the
police surgeon came, that he had no chance. He looked up at Tillizini’s
emotionless face with a faint smile.
“Signor,” he said, in Italian, “I ought to have known better--it was
thus you trapped others. I have certain moneys at the bank”--he named
the institution--“I wish that money to go to my sister, who is a widow
at Sezzori.”
“That I will send, Pietro.”
“You know my name,” said the dying man.
“I know you very well,” said Tillizini.
The man looked at him bleakly.
“Some day,” he said, at last--his voice was growing fainter--“they
will have you, our brave Red Hand, signor, and there will be a great
killing.”
He checked himself and looked round at the uncomprehending policeman,
who could not understand the language, and at the servant, obviously
English and agitated by the extraordinary character of the evening.
Then he half whispered:
“There is something I wish to tell you, signor.”
His voice was now difficult to hear. Tillizini bent his head to catch
the words, and in that moment the dying man mustered his last reserve
of strength; by sheer effort of malignant will he called into play all
the vital forces which were left alive within him. As Tillizini’s head
sank lower and lower, Pietro’s hand crept to his side.
“Signor,” he whispered, “take that!”
Quick as he was, Tillizini was quicker. As he whipped round, his
vise-like grip held the other’s wrist, and the gleaming knife fell with
a clatter to the polished floor. Then with a quick jerk he flung the
man’s hand down on the settee and stood up, smiling.
“How like a rat, Pietro, how like a rat!”
And the dying man, unrepentant of his many villainies, of the sorrow
and the suffering he had brought to so many people, saw, with the glaze
of death filming his eyes, the lips of Tillizini part in an amused and
contemptuous smile.
* * * * *
An hour later Tillizini sat in the private office of Inspector Crocks,
of Scotland Yard.
“It was a narrow squeak for you,” said the inspector admiringly.
“There were two,” said Tillizini dryly. “Which one do you mean?”
“The first, I think, was the most serious,” said the Englishman.
“Now it’s strange that you should say that,” said Tillizini. “I think
the second was--the dagger was poisoned. I discovered that soon after.”
“Poisoned?”
“Yes, with a poison that is not a particularly pleasant one--tetanus,”
he said.
“Good God!” said the inspector, genuinely shocked. “That’s the germ of
lockjaw, isn’t it?”
Tillizini nodded.
“That is it,” he said cheerfully. “A pleasant end especially planned
for me. I tell you these men are scientists in a crude way. I knew he
was upstairs waiting, the first man. An old trick that; you’ve probably
had it played on innocent suburban folk of this city hundreds of times.”
The inspector agreed with a gesture.
“When the amiable Thomas closed the door, our friend who delivered the
parcel quickly put up a piece of canvas paper backed with a strong silk
fabric. The door caught in the staple, but so did the strong silk. When
he considered the coast was clear and he judged Thomas to be out of
the way, he had but to pull the projecting end----”
“I know the trick,” said the inspector. “I’ve seen it done a score of
times.”
“I suspected something of the sort,” said Tillizini, “but mostly I
suspected a parcel. I thought, too, that the kidnapping of Carter was a
ruse to get me out so that a warm welcome might be prepared for me when
I came back.”
“Have you found the man?”
“He’ll be found,” said Tillizini, “by to-morrow morning.”
“I’ve got men out now hunting for him,” said Crocks. “It’s rather a
difficult job, Tillizini, dealing with your people.”
Tillizini smiled.
“They are somewhat different from the average English criminal,” he
said. “One of these days when you are in Florence, Inspector, you must
come to my museum and I’ll show you the skulls of typical criminals of
all countries. I will explain then to you just why our Southern men
are more dangerous to handle, and if you would be patient with me”--he
favoured the policeman with his little bow--“I would then as briefly as
possible give you the basis by which you may forejudge men’s actions.”
“In other words,” said the inspector jovially, “you’ll give me
elementary lessons in necromancy.”
“Something of the sort,” said Tillizini.
He had had half an hour with Crocks and with the commissioner. Another
crime had been laid at the door of the Red Hand. A worrying business
for the English police, however satisfactory it might be to Tillizini.
He rose from his chair and looked at his watch; it was nearly twelve.
The inspector followed his example.
“Where are you going now?”
“I’m going back to my house,” he said. “Will you come?”
“I have an hour to spare,” said the other, “and I like your room; it’s
rather restful. If I shan’t be in the way, I’ll come round and get a
few particulars at first hand.”
“Come along,” said Tillizini.
He passed through the broad corridors of Scotland Yard, down the stone
stairway, and out by the entrance near the arch. The policeman on duty
at the door saluted him respectfully.
They strolled together leisurely back to the house in Adelphi Terrace.
Tillizini rang; it was an act of laziness on his part that he did not
find his key. There was no reply, and he rang again. Then he opened
the door himself and stepped in. The two hall lights were burning, but
there was no sign of Thomas.
Tillizini closed the door behind him. Thomas was usually to be found in
the basement. He walked to the end of the passage and called over the
stairs, but again without reply. Neatly folded on a little dumb-waiter,
placed for better security beneath a glass, was a note. Tillizini
pulled it out, took it up and read it. It explained much. It was
addressed to the man, Thomas:
I have been arrested in connection with to-day’s crime. Please bring my
overcoat at once to Bow Street.
It was signed, “Antonio Tillizini.”
Without a word he handed the wire to the English detective.
“We will now go and discover things,” he said, and led the way upstairs.
He did not trouble to arm himself because he knew the ways of the Red
Hand too well to believe that any of the organization were present.
They had probably had half an hour after Thomas had hurried away with
the necessary overcoat. They would do what they wanted to do in ten
minutes.
He opened the door of his room and walked in without fear. He switched
on the light. The room was in confusion. There had been a diligent and
damaging search. The drawers of his desk had been ripped open and the
floor was covered with papers and splinters of rosewood.
Not even the chairs and the settee had escaped attention. They had been
cut open and their stuffings pulled out. The legs of one chair had
been lopped off as by a machete. Strangely enough, the little case of
medicines, which still stood open on his desk, had been left intact.
The Red Hand had too great a respect for Tillizini’s knowledge of
chemistry, and they had had such illuminating lessons of his knowledge
of high explosives, that they had left this severely alone, excepting
that there was plenty of evidence that each phial had been carefully
and cautiously lifted from its velvet-lined well and examined.
With a quick glance at the damage done, the Italian walked with
rapid strides across the room, lifted up one corner of the carpet,
and slipped back a narrow panel in the floor. It had been cunningly
constructed by Tillizini’s own hand. It would be almost impossible for
anybody not in the secret to know that such a receptacle existed. He
thrust in his hand, and felt for a little while with a grim smile, then
his hand slowly withdrew. The detective saw that he held a paper. He
read:
For the locket, thanks. Now you shall hear from us, Tillizini.
The Italian said nothing. He stood in the middle of the room, his hands
clasped on his breast, his head sunk in thought.
“They have taken the locket,” said Inspector Crocks, aghast.
Tillizini did not reply.
There came a knock at the door, and Thomas, still with his master’s
overcoat on his arm, entered.
“I’m sorry, sir; did you----?” he began.
Tillizini raised his head.
“Thomas,” he said, “I have told you under no circumstances must you
leave this house. Your failure to carry out my instructions, however,
is mainly my fault. To-morrow I will draw you a little sign which you
will see on any letter or wire I send, and know that it comes from me.”
“I’m very sorry, sir,” said Thomas.
Tillizini waved his apologies away.
“It is nothing,” he said, “all this; rather,” he smiled, “I owe you an
apology. You have a little child, have you not?”
“Yes, sir,” said Thomas wonderingly.
“You carry his portrait in a locket, do you not?”
“Oh, yes, sir,” replied Thomas. “Why, you know I do, sir. I brought you
the locket to see the other day.”
“I am sorry to say, Thomas,” said Tillizini gravely, “that I have lost
it--I hope it may be recovered. I put it in a safe place, I assure you.”
“Oh, it’s nothing, sir,” said Thomas. “I can get another. It wasn’t
worth half a crown.”
“A token of a father’s love is invaluable,” said Tillizini, the corners
of his lips turning up.
He took his revolver from his pocket, pressed a spring near the trigger
guard, and a little silver lid flew open in the butt. He held his hand
under it and shook it, and something fell out wrapped in silver tissue.
He unrolled the paper and handed the contents to Crocks.
“I am almost inclined to ask you to keep this in Scotland Yard,” he
said, “yet I don’t think they will burgle me again.”
It was the medallion!
“As for that which they have stolen,” Tillizini went on, “it is
regrettable.” He turned to Thomas. “I feel I shall never forgive myself
for losing that charming locket of yours.”
His voice was filled with gentle mockery, and the servant grinned a
little sheepishly, mumbling his depreciation of any fuss at so small a
loss.
“I’m not at all annoyed, sir,” he said awkwardly.
What was true of Thomas was not true of the two leaders of the Red Hand
who at that moment were sitting in a little room in Deptford examining
with consternation and chagrin the plump and smiling features of a
healthy child of two.
CHAPTER XI
LADY MORTE-MANNERY HELPS A FRIEND
Sir Ralph Morte-Mannery was in an amiable mood. He had just read a most
complimentary reference to his own perspicacity and genius in a French
journal devoted to the interests of collectors. His gaiety had affected
the other members of the little dinner party and had tempered somewhat
the natural annoyance of the quashing of George Mansingham’s conviction.
That unfortunate man had been released, not because the judges of the
Appeal Court thought that his sentence was excessive, but because, in
summing up, Sir Ralph had outraged most of the canons of good taste
which it is possible for a judge to outrage.
In giving judgment, their lordships had said many bitter things about
Sir Ralph; indeed, so unkind had been some of their comments, that
Hilary George, listening with that air of delighted wonder which was
his normal attitude toward life, had felt a sinking of his heart as he
thought of the humiliation which by his efforts he had brought upon his
sometime friend.
Hilary was too good a man and too good a sportsman to exult in his
victory. He was a strong man, too. None but a strong man would have
taken the first train to Burboro’ and carried the news of the result
to a man who would consider himself as being almost within his legal
rights in slaying the messenger.
There had been a stiff little meeting in the library; later, something
like a reconciliation. Hilary, in terms which his old friendship
permitted, gave the result of the finding, toning down the more
vigorous of the judges’ remarks, and inwardly praying that _The Times_,
in its record of the case, would sub-edit it as mercifully.
Sir Ralph had been prepared for some such upset. He himself was an
excellent lawyer where his prejudices did not interfere with his
judgment. The lawyer in him had told him that his sentence had been
excessive, just as the collector in him demanded as emphatically that
the man should have been hung. But Hilary, with his baby face and his
babbling humour and his readiness to laugh at jokes against himself,
had broken down the reserve of the older man and had been invited to
stay on.
Over the dinner table Sir Ralph even drank his health in facetious
terms. The host’s humour was not of a great quality. But it was quite
sufficient, as indeed it is in the case of all men whose flashes of
humour are few and far between. He insisted on referring to Hilary as
the “enemy” or “my oppressor,” and it gave him considerable amusement
to do so.
“Now, Hilary,” he said, with heavy jocularity, “you must give us all
the news of the best criminal circles. What are the Red Hand doing?
Really, they are killing as many people as the motor buses.”
“Those people who know best,” said Hilary gravely, “are viewing the
inactivity of the Red Hand with some apprehension. I happen to know
the government is rather worried about it. These men are brilliantly
organized, and they will stop at nothing.”
“Has anybody discovered,” asked Marjorie, “why they are rifling the
collections? There was an article in the _Post Herald_ about it the
other day.”
Hilary shook his head.
“I’m blessed if I can understand it,” he said. “There’s something
behind it. I don’t want to bother you, Ralph,” he went on, “but doesn’t
it ever strike you, as a lawyer and as a man of keen perceptions, that
there really might have been some Red Hand move behind that burglary of
yours?”
Sir Ralph shook his head.
“I shouldn’t think it was likely; of course, it might be so,” he
conceded graciously, though in his heart of hearts he was perfectly
satisfied that it was nothing of the sort.
“Their latest exploit,” said Hilary, “was to kidnap one of Tillizini’s
agents. The man was taken away overnight and turned up whole and hearty
in the morning. For some reason they’d given an order for his release,
being, I think, under the impression that they’d killed Tillizini and
there was no necessity to retain his agent. The man could give very
little account of his movements, except that he had been more or less
stupefied by the administration of a drug which somewhat dulled his
powers of recollection. He was unable to assist the police in locating
the house where he had been taken. He was found in a dazed condition
sitting on one of the seats on London Bridge in the early hours of the
morning, and has been in a more or less semi-conscious condition ever
since.”
“That’s very interesting.” Frank, who was seated next to Marjorie,
leaned across the table. “I’ve seen men like that in Italy; it’s a sort
of opium preparation that some of the peasants take. There is a slang
term for it in Italian, an abbreviation of _non mi recordo_.”
“He remembers nothing, anyway,” said Hilary, “except----” He stopped.
“Except what?” asked Vera.
She had been a silent listener to the conversation. She was looking
very beautiful to-night, Hilary thought. She wore a dress of gray
chiffon velvet, one big pink rose in her corsage.
“I forget now,” said Hilary. He remembered that he had received his
information in confidence, and that he himself might be associated in
the case at a later period.
“By the way,” he went on, “I saw you in town the other day.”
Vera raised her delicate eyebrows.
“Really,” she drawled, “that was awfully clever of you. Where was I?”
“You were in Oxford Street,” said Hilary. “That was an awfully swagger
motor car you were driving in. Was it Festini’s?”
She looked at him steadily.
“Festini?” she repeated.
“I thought I saw you with Festini,” he said hastily.
For a man with such a wide knowledge of human creatures, and, moreover,
so versed in the ways of society, he seemed to be making an unusual
number of _faux pas_.
“I do not know Festini,” she said, “if you mean Count Festini, whose
name one sees through the medium of the public press as moving in
exalted circles; nor have I ever been in a motor car in Oxford Street
since I drove with Sir Ralph to Buzzard’s last Christmas.”
“I am sorry,” murmured the barrister.
Vera changed the subject with an easy grace. She was a perfect hostess,
though she required all her self-control to prevent her showing the
anger she felt.
“Go on telling us something about the Red Hand,” she said. “What is
this immense _coup_ one hears about? I am awfully keen to know.”
“Nobody seems to have any information on that subject,” said Hilary,
“not even Tillizini.”
“Not even Tillizini?” she repeated in mock amazement.
“Not even Tillizini,” repeated Hilary. “He seems to be as much in the
dark as any of us.”
“People are getting a little jumpy,” said Sir Ralph, as, at a signal
from Vera, the two women rose from the table. “There was another
article in this morning’s paper. I know the journalists who are
generally behind the scenes in these things expect something pretty big
to happen. The police are guarding all the public buildings, and every
cabinet minister is being shadowed with as much care as though the Red
Hand was a suffragist organization.”
The party laughed politely at Sir Ralph’s little gibe.
“I can confirm that,” said Frank, as he selected a cigar from the box
which Marjorie offered him. “The various corporations responsible for
their safety have asked a number of engineers to make an inspection of
the bridges.”
“Across the Thames?”
He nodded. “There’s a water-guard every night for these,” he said; “all
the signs are pretty ominous.”
Sir Ralph and Hilary strolled away. They were both interested in the
collection, and Vera joined the other two.
“I am not going to stay long with you,” she smiled. “Don’t look so
alarmed, Mr. Gallinford.”
She was genuine in her desire to propitiate him. His attitude toward
her was a little strange and stiff. If she knew the reason, she gave
no indication. In a way, he amused her. He was so open and so English.
She experienced the resentment of her remote ancestry stirring within
her at his dogged, unwavering honesty. Her attitude, to the distress
of Marjorie, was at once polite and antagonistic. She, Marjorie, had
remonstrated with him without effect. With all her pride in her lover,
she desired that he should stand well with others and should inspire in
them the same admiration which she herself felt for him.
Vera’s attempt at conciliation on this occasion was crowned with no
greater success than her previous effort. After awhile she yawned
slightly behind her hand. She apologized laughingly.
“Do not think you poor people are boring me,” she said, “but I’ve had
some rather trying nights lately. Where are you going?” she asked.
“I am going into the billiard room to play Marjorie a hundred up,” said
Frank, with a heroic attempt to be genial.
Vera nodded.
“And I’ve got my accounts to bring up-to-date.”
She made a wry little face. “Pity me,” she demanded, with a smile.
“Can I help you, dear?” asked Marjorie.
Vera shook her head.
“Accounts,” she said, with thinly veiled acrimony, “are mysteries into
which I trust your future husband will never initiate you.”
With a nod she passed out of the room. She returned a few minutes later
as though she had left something behind, and found the room empty. She
made her way to the billiard room; the game had just started, so they
were settled for at least half an hour.
She looked at the jewelled watch on her wrist; it wanted five minutes
to ten. She came back to the hall and went up the stairs slowly, and
as slowly walked past the museum. The iron door was closed, but its
rosewood covering stood ajar. Ralph was engaged in an argument on the
respective values of Renaissance artists which would last for at least
an hour. She quickened her steps. At the other end of the corridor
her own room was situated. Highlawn had been reconstructed to suit
Sir Ralph’s convenience. In a sense it was convenient to her too, for
she had chosen a small room in a wing which was never fully occupied
unless Sir Ralph had an unusually large house party.
She closed the door behind her and locked it. It was a pretty room,
furnished with taste, though it contained little that could by any
stretch of imagination be termed valuable. Sir Ralph had his own
views on the luxury of the age, and the simplicity, not to say the
meanness, of his domestic arrangements was a concrete expression of his
disapproval of modern luxurious tendencies.
The room possessed, what is unusual in English country houses, long
French windows, which opened onto a balcony. She looked at her watch
again, then drew a heavy curtain across her door. A light was burning
dimly. The room might have been a sitting room but for the big white
bed which stood in an alcove, screened from view by thick silk curtains.
She did not trouble to turn on more lights. She looked at the dim
solitary electric bulb for a moment in doubt, and then walked to the
window. Again she looked at the light hesitatingly, and, walking back,
switched it off. She opened the window and stepped out onto the balcony.
It was a mild, pleasant night. The moon was hidden behind a bank
of clouds, but there was sufficient light to distinguish the more
prominent objects in the big, sweet-smelling garden below. She looked
carefully left and right, and saw nothing. She went back to her room to
get a rug, and resumed her vigil. The clock of the village church had
struck ten in its lugubrious tones when she heard a slight sound in the
garden below.
She walked back to her room quickly, opened a cupboard, and took out a
silk ladder; there was a hook attached, and this she fastened with deft
fingers to a socket in the balcony, fixed in the wall, ostensibly to
support the sunblinds when their cover was necessary.
She dropped the ladder over. A dark form rose from the shadow of the
portico beneath and mounted the swaying cordage. He leaped lightly over
the balustrade and stopped for a moment to pull up the ladder after him
and to lay it on the floor of the balcony.
She took his hand and led him into the room, closed the windows,
shuttered them, and pulled the velvet curtains across. Then she
switched on the light and returned to him. She laid her two hands upon
his shoulders and looked hungrily into his face.
Beautiful as she was, the love which shone in her eyes transfigured her
face and intensified her loveliness.
“It is you!” she breathed. “Oh, thank you for coming yourself! I was
afraid that you would send one of those wretched men of yours.”
Festini smiled kindly. He patted her cheek caressingly.
“I had to come,” he said, “though it is not long since I saw you.”
“It is two days,” she said reproachfully.
He nodded.
“So it is,” he smiled. “You got my letter?”
For answer she took a crumpled envelope from her breast.
“You ought to burn that,” he said half seriously. “It is a very
dangerous thing to keep letters, even though they are apparently
innocent.”
“You have come alone?” she asked.
He inclined his head. The hand that rested in his was shaking, but not
from fear.
“I have missed you so. I hate this place,” she said vehemently. “It
is a prison to me. It eats out my heart--this life. Festini,” she
said, and again her two hands were laid on his shoulder, and her face
searched his, “you cannot understand what an existence this is.”
“It is only for a little while, my child,” he said.
She was older than he, but his paternal manner was perfect.
“Later we will go away and leave this dull land for a more pleasant
one. Leave these gray skies for the blue of our Italy, and these drab,
drizzling fields for the sun-washed vineyards of our own land.”
He kissed her lightly again. He was anxious to get to business. None
knew the relations of these two, for Festini kept his secret well. Even
in the innermost council of his association he spoke of her as though
she were the veriest stranger.
“I want to go somewhere,” she said moodily, “out of this! I planned to
see you in Ireland last year, and at the last moment Ralph would not
let me go.”
She turned suddenly to him.
“You must have met Marjorie there.”
“Marjorie?” he said innocently.
“We were going together,” she went on, “and when I found she had to go
alone--after all my planning----”
She shook her head with a sad little smile.
“I dared not send a letter by her, or give you an excuse for falling
in love with her,” she rallied him.
“I don’t remember her. What was she like?” said Festini calmly.
“She remembered you,” said Vera. “She maddened me by her chatter of
you. I am happy to say that she did not like you very much.”
Festini smiled.
“So few people do,” he said.
He slipped off his overcoat.
“We are perfectly safe from interruption here?” he asked.
She inclined her head.
“There is no danger whatever.”
“Now then,” he said briskly, “let us talk for quite five minutes, dear.”
They sat head to head, talking. Five minutes became ten. The young man
spoke quickly, vehemently; and she answered in monosyllables. It was
nothing to her that he asked so much. She would have sacrificed more
than her husband’s possessions to please him.
Every law in the world, save the law of gravitation, is suspended in
the woman in love. Faith, honour, every known principle went by the
board. She had no sense of right or wrong where he was concerned. Only
a desire to serve him.
“You had best make the attempt between three and four,” he said. “I
will be here in the garden, waiting. I have a cycle hidden near by, and
a car will be waiting for me on the London road.”
“I wanted to say something to you,” she said suddenly. “I hate
admitting a failure, and, dearie, I tried so hard.”
His quick intuition divined her meaning.
“Oh, the money,” he said lightly. “Don’t let that bother you. I
managed to get some. We’ve been out of luck lately. This infernal man,
Tillizini, has dammed our usual sources. We had a windfall last week,
and in a month’s time,” he said, and she saw the soft light die from
the eyes and the delicate mouth harden in one straight line, “in a
month’s time,” he repeated, “we shall be very rich! And England will be
very sore.”
With lightning change he brightened again and was his own insouciant
self.
“Don’t let the money worry you. We have quite a lot now,” he said. “I,
somehow, didn’t fancy you’d be able to raise the five hundred.”
He rose to go and she assisted him with his coat.
“By the way,” he said, “that niece of yours--what did you say her name
was?”
“Marjorie.”
“That is the name,” he nodded. “I seem to remember her. Where is she
now?”
He put the question carelessly.
“She’s in the house,” replied Vera.
“What a curious coincidence!” he smiled. “She doesn’t speak about me
nowadays, I suppose?” he asked.
Vera shook her head. It had occurred to the young man that the girl
might have referred to their meeting at Victoria.
“Why, of course, how stupid of me!” he said suddenly. “I saw
her the other day--on some station--I remember her now. A tall,
healthy-looking, robust person.”
His description was not flattering to Marjorie, but it was eminently
pleasing to the woman, who was jealous of every other interest he had
in life.
“That is not kind,” she smiled, “but I think it more or less describes
her.”
“She was with a tall man, I remember.”
“He is in the house too,” she said.
He looked at her thoughtfully.
“He is in the house too,” he repeated, and his voice was hard.
She thought he was tired, and moved to the window. Her hand was on the
curtain. She stood waiting; then, with a little sigh, she nestled
close to him.
“I want you so,” she breathed. “My God, I do so want you! You don’t
know what it means--what I feel----”
He laughed, a gentle, tolerant laugh.
He held out his arms. For a second she lay on his breast, her heart
beating wildly--perfectly and divinely happy.
“I must go now,” he said gently. “I am afraid of being caught.”
With some reluctance she opened the window. He stood for a moment on
the balcony, reconnoitring the position.
The coast was clear. In a second he was over the balustrade and had
slipped noiselessly to the ground.
CHAPTER XII
THE SECOND MEDALLION
She waited till he had disappeared in the shadow of the garden; then
she pulled up the ladder and placed it in a drawer within the wardrobe,
whence she had extracted it, and closed the windows.
He had left very definite instructions, and she went over them in her
mind to make absolutely sure.
The medallion she knew. She had prepared a drawing especially for this
man whose influence was the guiding and dominant thing in her life.
She looked round carefully to remove all trace of the visitor’s
presence. Then she unlocked the door and went out.
As she passed the little museum, Sir Ralph and his guest emerged. He
looked at her in some surprise.
“Hello, Vera,” he said, pleasantly for him. “I thought you were with
the others.”
“I’ve been doing my accounts,” she said, with a little grimace.
Sir Ralph chuckled. In his more pleasant moods he took a humorous view
of his own economies.
He was fastening the door of the museum when Vera intervened.
“I’d like to see those medallions of yours again,” she said.
Sir Ralph was pleased. Vera took too little interest in his collection
to satisfy him. It was one of his grievances that she did not enter
into what he termed the “larger side of his life.”
“Come along, come along,” he said, “only do not provoke Hilary to a
discussion on art, because he is the veriest Philistine.”
He chuckled again.
The girl looked at the medallions with more than usual interest. She
had seen them before, and recently, though this Sir Ralph did not know.
She had a twofold object in asking for this inspection. Her husband
had grown nervous as a result of the activity of the Red Hand, and had
signified his intention of changing all the locks. She wanted to make
certain that he had not carried out his plans.
Her first glance reassured her. They had not been altered, nor had he
changed the position of the medallions.
“They are very beautiful,” she said.
In point of fact she thought them very uninteresting, but it was not
politic to express this view.
“They grow on you, do they not?” said Sir Ralph enthusiastically. “I
shall make a connoisseur of you in time, Vera.”
She went downstairs ahead of the two men, in a thoughtful mood.
It was after midnight when the little party broke up and retired to
their rooms.
Frank was one of the last to go upstairs. He passed through the drawing
room, and found Vera tidying away the chessmen with which Sir Ralph and
Hilary had been amusing themselves.
He would have gone straight on, but something induced him to stop.
“Good-night, Lady Morte-Mannery,” he said.
She was bending over the table and did not trouble to raise her head.
“Good-night, Mr. Gallinford,” she said.
He still waited.
“I feel that I ought to explain something that is in my mind,” he said,
a trifle uncomfortably. He had no great command of language, and was
somewhat embarrassed.
“I shouldn’t, if I were you,” she said quietly. “Let matters go as they
are, and be charitable.”
She was in a melting mood to-night. For no reason that she could think
of, she felt a desire to stand well with the world, and especially
with that section of the world which this good-looking English youth
represented.
“There is a key word,” she said, “which explains the most contradictory
situations--the most unlikely and unthinkable follies. You may know
that key word.”
“I only know one,” he said gently, “and that is ‘Love.’”
Vera smiled at him. It was a dazzling, human smile that revealed in a
flash the deeps of her nature.
“That is the word,” she said, and went on with her tidying.
He stood a second longer; then, with another good-night he left her,
puzzled and a little ashamed of his own attitude toward her.
At the head of the stairs Marjorie was waiting to say good-night, and
in a moment all thought of the woman he had left in the drawing room
below, and her cryptic utterances, was obliterated from his mind.
* * * * *
Vera had been reading before her bedroom fire. She had spent the whole
of the night reading and thinking. The reading had been mechanical;
she could not recall a single sentence or one situation from the
thrilling novel which lay upon her knee.
She looked up at the little clock over the mantelpiece. The hands
pointed to a quarter to four.
She rose and took from a hanging cupboard a long dark raincoat, and
this she put on over her dressing gown, buttoning it carefully so that
it should not inconvenience her movements.
She unlocked and opened a drawer of her writing table and took out a
red morocco case.
This she again unlocked with a key attached to a bunch she had taken
from under her pillow. The case was apparently empty, but she pressed a
spring and the bottom of the box flew up.
Three beautifully fashioned keys lay on the velvet in the false bottom.
She took them in her hand, closed the box, and extinguished the light.
She waited by the door for a moment or two, listening. Then she opened
it and stepped out into the dark corridor.
She had twenty or thirty yards to walk, but her moccasined feet made
no sound upon the thick carpet. The house lay wrapped in slumber, as
silent as death.
She could hear nothing save the rattle within the wainscot of a
foraging mouse. She walked on until she came to the museum. Here she
halted again, listening.
Sir Ralph slept in a room on the farther side, and, fortunately, was a
heavy sleeper. Hilary had the room on the other.
She inserted the key, opened the rosewood door, took the other key and
turned it in the steel door.
Noiselessly the well-oiled lock shot back. She pushed the door open and
entered, closing both doors behind her. She could not lock them from
the inside, but there was no chance of a casual passer observing that
it had been opened--even if casual wanderers were likely at this hour
of the morning.
She took from the pocket of her raincoat a tiny electric lamp and
flashed it over the cases. She found the one she wanted, unshuttered it
deftly, opened the glass case, and lifted out the medallion.
She made a quick inspection of it to make sure that she had the right
jewel.
Noiselessly she slipped through the door, locked it behind her, and
fastened the outer covering quickly.
Then she turned to retrace her steps to her room.
She took one step and then stopped, rooted to the ground with terror
and dismay, for, confronting her, she saw a bulky form.
There was not enough light to show her his face, but she knew it was
Hilary George.
“Who’s there?” he asked softly.
She was paralyzed with terror. She could not force her tongue to speak.
“Who is that?” he asked, and his voice rose.
With a superhuman effort she recovered her self-possession.
If he spoke louder he would wake Sir Ralph, and that would be the end
of things.
“It is I,” she said, speaking in the same tone.
“Lady Morte-Mannery? I am sorry,” he whispered. “I thought I heard
somebody in the grounds, and I listened, but heard nothing more, so I
got a little uneasy.”
“It’s all right,” she said, speaking in the same tone as before. “I
have been to Sir Ralph’s room to get a little veronal. I cannot sleep.”
With a whispered apology he went back to his room.
It was on the other side of the treasure house, and she wondered if she
had made any noise. Had he seen her come out? His next words lifted a
weight from her heart.
“I couldn’t see where you came from,” he said, “or who you were. I hope
I didn’t frighten you?”
“Oh, no,” she said lightly.
With another apology he went into his room and closed the door softly
behind him.
She flew along the passage to her room, her heart beating wildly. Once
in the room, she locked the door and drew the curtain across it. Then
with an unsteady hand she switched on an electric light. She caught a
glimpse of her face in the mirror over the fireplace, and was shocked
at its drawn and haggard appearance.
There was still part of the work to be done.
Hilary had heard somebody in the garden. That would be Festini. She
looked to make sure that she had the jewel, then she turned out the
light again, opened the shutters, and crept out on to the balcony.
She saw a dark figure standing in the shadow of some bushes. The man
came forward as she appeared.
“Catch!” she whispered.
He held out his hand as she threw.
He caught the medallion neatly and put it in his pocket, then turned
without a word and plunged into the bushes.
She stood for a moment--a little disappointed feeling in her heart.
After all she had risked, all she had dared, she had hoped for some
word of thanks.
She was turning to reënter the room when a sibilant voice held her.
Her heart bounded. He had come back.
She looked down at the dark figure beneath.
“Did you get it?” he whispered, in a low tone.
“Get it?” she said, in bewilderment. “I have just given it to you.”
“Given it to me?” His voice was harsh. “You have given me nothing. I
have been waiting here for half an hour.”
She staggered back against the balustrade, half sick with fear.
“Tell me, tell me,” said the voice impatiently, growing louder. “Who
was it you gave it to?”
“I gave it to a man,” she said faintly.
“Which way did he go?”
“Through those bushes,” she said.
Without another word he ran in the direction the other man had taken.
She had time to get back to the room, close the shutters and pull the
curtains, before she fell half swooning upon the ground.
Festini was light of foot, quick, and with the almost catlike ability
of picking his way in the dark. He had not gone twenty yards before he
saw the man ahead.
There was no time for finesse.
Fortunately for him, Festini had changed his plans. He had dropped the
idea of coming by train, and his car now stood, purring gently, in a
little lane which adjoined the house.
As he sighted the man ahead, he whipped out his automatic pistol and
fired twice.
Without a sound the man sank to the ground.
Festini had no time to examine his victim. He knew that he was still
alive, as he bent over him and searched his waistcoat pockets.
In one of these he had hoped to find the jewel, but it was not there.
But it was in the clasped hand of the stricken man.
Festini found it, wrenched open the fingers, and possessed himself of
the prize.
“Now! Do your worst,” he hissed, as he swung round and shook his fist,
as at a world that was at war with him, “do your worst!”
The sound of the shot had awakened the people of the house. Lights
appeared in two or three rooms.
Vera, lying on the floor, was roused to consciousness by a loud
knocking at her door.
She got up slowly. Her head was still dizzy, and she staggered as she
walked.
“Who is there?” she asked.
“It is I,” said her husband’s voice. “Open the door. Are you hurt?”
She plunged her hands into a jug of water that stood on the washstand
and passed them over her face. The touch of the chilly water revived
her. She dabbed her face with a towel with one hand as she opened the
door with the other.
“What is it?” she asked.
She was steadying herself. She had heard the shot and she was prepared
for the worst.
Sir Ralph was in his dressing gown.
“Where was the firing?” he asked.
“I heard no firing,” she said steadily.
“Somebody fired a pistol in the garden,” said Sir Ralph.
She heard Hilary’s voice in the passage.
“Are you all right, Lady Morte-Mannery?” said his voice.
“I am quite all right,” she replied. “What is wrong?”
Her voice was shaky and high-pitched, but in a dull way she knew that
her agitation would be excusable. There had been shots in the garden,
somebody had been shot--who? At that moment there came to her a quick
pang of fear.
“Somebody is shot?” she asked tensely. “Who is shot?”
“There was a man in the garden trying to enter the house,” said
Hilary’s voice. “Possibly he was detected.”
Sir Ralph crossed the room and, opening the shutters, went out on to
the balcony. Two men were already on the lawn below.
“Have you found anything?” he called.
He was addressing the two hastily aroused servants who were conducting
the search outside.
Vera listened; her heart almost stopped beating when the groom’s voice
replied:
“There’s a man shot in the shrubbery, Sir Ralph. He looks like a
foreigner.”
She clenched her hands and waited--rigid--expressionless.
“What sort of man?” asked Sir Ralph testily. “What do you mean by a
foreigner, Philip?”
“Well, he’s a clean-shaven gentleman,” said the servant. “I don’t
think he’s badly hurt. A tall man.”
A great joy surged over the woman.
It was not he; whoever it was, whether this wounded man lived or
died--it was not Festini.
She listened. There was a new voice.
“It’s all right, Sir Ralph,” it said.
She recognized it and set her teeth. Part of the conversation came to
her in little gusts.
“It was just a little clip of a bullet across the temple ... that
is the second time they have missed me.... I’m afraid you’ve lost
something....”
It was the voice of Tillizini.
In the big hall they assembled, a dishevelled assembly, hastily
garmented.
Tillizini’s wound was a superficial one. The bullet had struck behind
his ear, glancing over the parietal bone and temporarily stunning him.
He was very cheerful.
“I only came down to-night by car,” he said, “because I received
information which led me to believe that the attempt would be made upon
you. Now,” he said, “I am ready.”
He stood up.
“I want to examine your little museum,” he said, “and discover what is
lost.”
“Oh, I couldn’t have lost anything from there,” said Sir Ralph
confidently. “There are alarms in every window, and almost every pane.”
“There are no alarms on the door, are there?” asked Tillizini.
Sir Ralph looked surprised.
“They are not necessary,” he said.
He led the way and the others followed.
He opened the treasure house and they flocked in behind him. He was a
little in advance of Tillizini, and he turned in the doorway to switch
on the light.
At that moment Vera saw the evidence of her criminal folly. On the top
of one of the shuttered cases was the little jewelled electric lamp
which Sir Ralph had in a fit of unusual generosity given her.
Tillizini saw it too. He was as quick as she, and quicker to move.
With one step he stood between the telltale lamp and the gaze of the
half-awake people in the doorway. His hand went out and covered it.
When Sir Ralph turned the lamp had disappeared.
There was a quick inspection.
“It’s gone!” cried the knight. “They have taken the Leonardo!”
“I thought they had,” said Tillizini calmly, “and I thought I should be
able to restore it--but, for the moment, that pleasure is denied me.”
“But is it possible?” said Sir Ralph, bewildered. “Nobody could have
got in here without my knowing!”
He was almost tearful in his grief.
“It was invaluable,” he said. “It cannot be replaced. It is the only
one of the kind in the world. What does it mean--what does it mean,
Tillizini? You must tell me everything! I insist upon knowing! I won’t
be kept in the dark!”
He raved and stormed as though Tillizini had been responsible for the
theft. It was some time before he became calmer, and then the Italian
was by no means informative.
Vera, silent and watchful, waited. Whatever happened, Festini was safe!
By now he would be far on his way to London. He had the parcel, that
was enough: she had served him, she asked for no more.
From the moment that Tillizini had put out his hand and covered the
lamp she knew that he had guessed her secret. Would he betray her? To
her surprise and relief he made no reference to what he must have seen
and known.
Yet he was distressed and worried--she saw that--but it was with the
greater issue, with the danger which confronted civilization.
He walked up and down the hall--a remarkable figure, with the white
bandage encircling his head, his hands thrust deep into his pockets,
his chin blue and unshaven, his eyes tired, with an infinite weariness.
He took no part in the fruitless discussion as to how the thief
effected an entry. He had all the information he required on that
subject. He paused in his walk and took from his pocket a shining
object--laid it in the palm of his hand and examined it.
Sir Ralph, attracted by the glow of dull gold in his hand, stepped
forward with a startled cry.
“Why, that is the locket!” he cried.
Tillizini shook his head.
“It is one very much like it,” he said, “but it is not the one. It is
the famous locket that was stolen from the Dublin collection, and which
is at the present moment supposed to be at the bottom of the North
Sea. It was given to a fellow-passenger on that boat to guard and to
return to me. You remember, I was charged with the investigation of its
disappearance.”
He walked to the fireplace.
There were two overhanging electric fixtures which gave a clear light.
He held the medallion with both hands, using only two fingers of each.
He gave it a sharp twist and it fell in two.
Sir Ralph uttered an exclamation.
“Why, I did not know that these things opened!” he said wonderingly.
“I could most devoutly wish that they did not,” said Tillizini grimly.
He damped his finger a little and drew forth from the locket’s interior
what looked like four disks of paper, as indeed they were. They were
covered with fine writing--so fine that it was almost impossible to
read them without the aid of a reading glass.
“Do you understand Italian?” asked Tillizini.
“A little,” said Sir Ralph, “but not enough to read this.”
“Take a good look at it,” said the other; “it is from the hand of the
greatest genius that ever lived since Jerusalem was a vassal state of
Rome.”
He spoke reverently--almost adoringly--of his famous compatriot.
“That is the hand of Leonardo da Vinci,” he said in a hushed voice.
“And what is it all about?” asked Frank. “And isn’t it written
backwards?”
He had been examining the microscopic writing with his keen eyes.
Tillizini smiled.
“The master wrote with his left hand invariably--always working back to
the left. This will help you.”
He drew from his pocket a tiny mirror in a leather case.
“Read,” said Tillizini.
Frank carried the little disks nearer to the light, and brought them
with the mirror closer to his eyes. Marjorie, watching him, saw his
lips move as he read the Italian, saw his brows pucker in a puzzled
frown, then her lover looked up suddenly.
“Why,” he said, “this is all about a plague.”
Tillizini nodded.
“The Great Plague,” he said, “or, as modern scientists call it, the
Fourth Plague, which broke out simultaneously in Italy and Ireland
in the same year. It was the one plague which our modern doctors are
unable to understand or fathom. As a matter-of-fact, the only man who
understood it was Leonardo da Vinci. He was, as you know well, Sir
Ralph, more than a painter. He had the scientific mind perfectly
developed. He was the first to foresee the coming of the aëroplane and
the armoured ship. He was an engineer, a sculptor, a chemist, and----”
He spread out his hands.
“What is the use? I cannot enumerate his qualities,” he said. “He was
so above the heads of his contemporaries that they were unable to
realize what kind of genius was in their midst. Even posterity can
hardly do him justice. He alone understood the Fourth Plague--its
meaning and its cause.
“That plague came into existence by the cultivation of a germ, though
this, of course, he did not know because the microscope was denied him;
but he guessed it--with that wonderful, Godlike intuition of his he
guessed it,” said Tillizini, his face glowing with enthusiasm and pride.
“The conditions under which the plague came into being, conditions
which were undreamed-of, even by those who saw them under their eyes,
were revealed to Leonardo da Vinci. Ordinarily,” he went on, “they
would in this year of grace be produced.”
“What do you mean by that?” asked Sir Ralph.
“Under the modern system,” said Tillizini, “that plague could never
appear again. But there are six drugs which you might find in the
British Pharmacopœia,” he continued, “which, if you were to mix them,
would produce a gas.”
He spoke impressively, and with the assurance of the practical
scientist.
“That gas, passed through a filter of vegetable matter, would set up
conditions which made the plague of 1500 possible.”
“Good God!” said Frank. “Do you mean to say that you can produce a
plague synthetically?”
Tillizini nodded.
“That is exactly what Leonardo da Vinci discovered. This is the secret.”
He held the flimsy disks in his hands.
“There is no doubt that Leonardo did produce a plague synthetically,
two years after. At any rate, some such outbreak occurred in the town
where his laboratory was situated. It is believed that, as a result of
that plague, Mona Lisa Gioconda lost her life.”
“Oh, that is the woman in the picture,” said Marjorie.
“That is the woman in the picture,” repeated Tillizini, “the one
woman in the world whom Leonardo ever loved. The one great softening
influence that ever came into his life. His investigations into the
cause of the plague he set forth, concisely, on these little filaments.
The lockets he fashioned himself. One, as you know----”
“I know the history,” said Sir Ralph. “I was telling Mr. Gallinford
only the other day. How extraordinary it is that that old-world story
should be revived.”
“But why do the Red Hand want these lockets?”
“They only want one. Either one will do,” said Tillizini. “Don’t you
realize? To-morrow, with the aid of a man with even the most elementary
knowledge of chemistry, they could devastate London--and not only
London, but the whole of England, or, if it please them, the whole of
Europe, working from different centres.”
As the little party stood stricken to silence, the full horror of the
danger dawning upon them, Tillizini heard a long-drawn sigh.
Vera had stumbled forward in a dead faint, and Frank had just time to
catch her before she fell.
CHAPTER XIII
THE ABDUCTION OF MARJORIE
It was a week after the burglary at Highlawn that a perfectly happy man
went whistling to his work. He walked with a brisk step, carrying his
lunch in a gaily coloured handkerchief, with a tin can full of tea for
his breakfast. George Mansingham raised his eyes to the sky, which was
just turning gray, in thankfulness at his freedom.
Work had been found for him through the medium of Hilary George, at a
little farm outside the town. He and his wife had been installed in a
tiny cottage on Sir Ralph’s estate. To give Sir Ralph his due, he had
freely admitted the injustice of the sentence he had passed; if not to
the man, at least to himself, which was something; and it needed little
pleading on the part of Hilary George, who had taken an interest in the
case, to induce him to let his untenanted cottage to the man he had
wronged.
Early as the hour was, he found his employer and his son up and about.
There is much work to be done before the sun comes up over the edge of
the world. There are horses to be fed and groomed, sheep and cattle
that require attention, cows to be milked, and milk to be carried.
The sky grew lighter, the sun came up, it seemed to him with a rush,
but he was too busy to notice the progress of the time. At half-past
eight nature called him to breakfast. He sat down to his frugal meal,
first placing two nose-bags on the heads of the horses, for he was now
engaged in ploughing the ten-acre lot Farmer Wensell farmed. His meal
quickly disposed of, he pulled a bulky book from the inside of his
jacket pocket and began to read. He had a passion for self-education,
and at the moment Merejkowski’s _Forerunner_, which Marjorie had lent
him, had a special significance, not only for him, but for the whole of
England. He was so intent upon the pages of this wonderful romance that
he did not notice the girl who was crossing the field with such free
strides.
He heard his name called and looked up; then he sprang to his feet, hat
in hand.
“You’re very absorbed, Mansingham,” smiled Marjorie.
“Yes, miss,” said the other; “it’s a wonderful book, and he’s a
wonderful man. I’m not surprised all the world’s talking about him just
now.”
“It’s not because of his genius that they are speaking of him,” said
the girl gravely.
She carried a paper under her arm; in fact, she had been down to
Burboro’ Station to get the journal.
“It’s a terrible business, miss,” said the man. He put the book down.
“It doesn’t seem possible, in a civilized age, and in a country like
England. Is there any fresh news this morning, miss?”
She nodded gravely.
“The Red Hand have addressed the premier,” she said, “and they have
demanded ten million pounds, an act of indemnity passed by the House of
Commons, and freedom to leave the country.”
The man looked incredulous.
“Why, they’ll never get that, will they, miss?” he asked. “It’s against
all reason, a demand like that! Suppose it’s not true, suppose they
haven’t discovered this plague----”
She shook her head.
“There’s no doubt about it, Mansingham,” she said. “Mr. Gallinford
knows it to be true. He has been investigating, looking up old
documents relating to the plague of 1500. These men have it in their
power to decimate the whole of England.”
The subject they were discussing filled the minds of men throughout
Great Britain that day; nay, throughout Europe. Wherever civilized
people forgathered, the cable and the telegraph had carried the news
of the threat which overhung the country. It was the final demand of
the Red Hand, a demand which at first had been pooh-poohed, and had
been discussed by government officials as a problem which called for
immediate solution.
The Red Hand had acted swiftly. Three days after the locket had
disappeared from Burboro’ a startling proclamation of the Red Hand,
printed in blood-red characters, had covered the hoardings and the
walls of London. Then it was for the first time that England woke to
a realization of the terrible danger which threatened her. It was
incomprehensible, unbelievable. It was almost fantastic. Men who read
it smiled helplessly as though they were reading something which was
beyond their understanding. And yet the proclamation was clear enough.
It ran:
TO THE PEOPLE OF LONDON.
We, the Directors of the Red Hand, demand of the English Government--
(_a_) The sum of Ten Million Pounds.
(_b_) An act of indemnity releasing every member of the Fraternity from
all and every penalty to which he may be liable as a result of his past
actions.
(_c_) A safe conduct to each and every member of the Red Hand, and
facilities, if so required, for leaving the country.
In the event of the Government’s refusing, after ten days’ grace,
we, the Directors of the Red Hand, will spread in London the Plague
which was known as the Fourth Plague, and which destroyed six hundred
thousand people in the year 1500. The bacillus of that plague is in our
possession and has been synthetically prepared and tested.
Citizens! Bring pressure on your Government to accede to our demands,
and save us the necessity of inflicting this terrible disease upon you!
It bore no signature or seal. It was absurd, of course. Evening papers,
necessarily hurried and having little time to analyze its true meaning,
made fun of it. But a different note appeared in the comments of the
morning papers. Every known scientist and doctor of note who was
reachable had been interviewed, and they one and all agreed that there
was more than an idle threat in the pronouncement.
The papers called it variously, “The Terror,” “The Threat of the Red
Hand,” “Blackmailing London,” and their columns were filled with every
available piece of data concerning the terrible scourge which had swept
through Italy and Ireland in the year of desolation.
“It’s a terrible business,” said Mansingham again. “I am afraid there
is something in it.”
The girl nodded.
With a courtesy which is not usually found in men of his class, he
accompanied her to the end of the field and assisted her across the
rough stile leading on to the road. She had made a detour from the
little station to speak to Mansingham. She was interested in him, and
it was a pact between the barrister and herself that she should keep,
as he put it, a friendly eye upon his protégé.
It was a glorious morning; the world was flooded with the lemon
sunlight of early spring. The trees were bright with vivid green,
and primroses and wild violets flowered profusely by the hedgerows.
She shook away the gloom and depression to which the thought of this
terrible menace had subjected her, and stepped out briskly, humming a
little tune.
Half-way across the field, Mansingham, retracing his steps, picked up
one of the papers she had been carrying, and hurried after her.
She had a twenty minutes’ walk before she reached Highlawn, which stood
some quarter of a mile from the town’s limits, but she was of an age,
and it was such a morning, when one’s feet seem to move without effort,
and song comes unbidden to the lips.
She heard the whirl of a motor car behind her and moved closer to the
hedge to allow it to pass. Unconsciously she turned to see who was the
occupant. At that moment the car jarred itself to a standstill at her
side. A young man, immaculately dressed, sprang out.
“Count Festini!” she cried in amazement.
“Count Festini,” he repeated, with his most charming smile. “I wanted
to see you. Won’t you get in? I am going up to the house,” he said.
She hesitated. She would much rather have walked that morning. But it
would have been an act of rudeness to refuse his offer of a lift, and
besides, it occurred to her that she was already overdue for breakfast,
and Sir Ralph’s temper of late had not been of the best.
She stepped into the car, and at that moment Mansingham, a little out
of breath, broke through the hedge behind it.
“What a curious idea,” Marjorie said, as Festini took his place beside
her.
“What is a curious idea?” he asked.
“A closed car on a day like this,” she said. “Why, I thought you
Italians loved the sun.”
“We love the sun,” he said, “untempered by such winds as you seem to
produce exclusively in England.”
He stepped forward and pulled down a red blind which hid the chauffeur
and the road ahead from view. She watched him without understanding the
necessity for his act. Then with a quick move he pulled the blinds down
on each side of the car. It was now moving forward at a great pace. At
this rate, she felt, they must be very near indeed to Highlawn. They
had, in fact, passed the house, as the embarrassed Mansingham, clinging
to the back of the car and waiting for it to slow up so that he could
restore the girl’s paper, saw to his bewilderment.
“Why do you do that?” the girl asked coldly. “If you please, Count
Festini, let those blinds up.”
“In a little while,” he said.
“I insist,” she stamped her foot. “You have no right to do such a
thing.”
She was hot and angry in a moment as the full realization of his
offense came to her.
“In a moment,” he repeated; “for the present we will have the blinds
down, if you don’t mind.”
She stared at him in amazement.
“Are you mad?” she asked angrily.
“You look very pretty when you’re angry,” he smiled.
The insolent assurance in his tone made her feel a sudden giddiness.
They must have passed Highlawn by now.
“Stop the car,” she demanded.
“The car will stop later,” he said; “in the meantime”--he caught her
hand as she attempted to release the blind--“in the meantime,” he
repeated, holding her wrist tightly, “you will be pleased to consider
yourself my prisoner.”
“Your prisoner!” exclaimed the affrighted girl. Her face had gone very
white.
“My prisoner,” said Festini pleasantly. “I am particularly desirous of
holding you to ransom. Don’t you realize”--his eyes were blazing with
excitement--“don’t you realize,” he cried, “what you are to me? I do.
In these last few days,” he went on, speaking rapidly, “I have seen all
the wealth that any man could desire. And it is nothing to me. Do you
know why? Because there is one thing in the world that I want more than
anything, and you are that thing.”
Both his hands were holding her now. She could not move. She was as
much fascinated by his deadly earnestness as paralyzed by the grip on
her arms.
“I desire you,” he said. His voice dropped until it thrilled. “You,
more than anything in the world--Marjorie. You are unattainable one
way; I must secure you in another.”
The girl shrank back into a corner of the car, watching the man,
fascinated. She tried to scream, but no sound came. Festini watched
her, his eyes glowing with the fire of his passion. His hot hand was
closed over hers almost convulsively.
“Do you know what I’m doing?” he said, speaking rapidly. “Do you know
what I’m risking for you? Can’t you realize that I am imparting a new
danger to myself and to my organization by this act? But I want you; I
want you more than anything in the world,” he said passionately.
She found her voice.
“You are mad,” she said; “you are wickedly mad.”
He nodded.
“What you say is true,” he answered moodily, “yet in my madness I am
obeying the same laws which govern humanity. Something here”--he struck
his breast--“tells me that you are the one woman for me. That is an
instinct which I obey. Is it madness? Then we are all mad; all animated
creation is mad.”
The fierce joy of possession overcame him; she struggled and screamed,
but the whir of the engine drowned her voice. In a moment she was in
his arms, held tightly to him, his hot lips against her cheeks. He must
have caught a glimpse of the loathing and horror in her face, for of a
sudden he released her, and she shrank back, pale and shaking.
“I’m sorry,” he said huskily, “you--you say I am mad--you make me mad.”
His moods changed as swiftly as the April sky. Now he was pleading; all
the arguments he could muster he advanced. He was almost cheerful, he
swore he would release her, reached out his hand to signal the driver,
and repented his generosity.
Then he spoke quickly and savagely of the fate which would be hers if
she resisted him. It was the memory of that tall, handsome lover of
hers that roused him to this fury. He was as exhausted as she when the
car turned from the main road, as she judged by the jolting of the
wheels. After ten minutes’ run, it slowed down and finally stopped.
He jumped up, opened the carriage door and sprang out, then turned to
assist her. A cold, sweet wind greeted her, a wind charged with the
scent of brine. She stood upon a rolling down; within a hundred yards
the sea stretched grayly to the horizon. There was no house in sight
save one small cottage. About the cottage stood two or three men. She
uttered a cry of thankfulness and started off toward them, when a laugh
from Festini stopped her.
“I’ll introduce you myself,” he said sarcastically.
She turned to run toward the sea, but in two strides he was up to her
and had caught her by the arm. Then a huge hand gripped his neck, with
a quick jerk he was spun round. His eyes blazing with anger, he turned
upon his assailant. George Mansingham, tall and broad, grimed with the
dust of the road, for he had maintained an uncomfortable position
hanging on to the back of the car for two hours, met the vicious charge
of Festini with one long, swinging blow, and the Italian went down to
the ground stunned.
The girl was dazed by the suddenness of the rescue, until Mansingham
aroused her to action.
“This way, miss!” he said.
He caught her unceremoniously round the waist, swung her up as if she
were a child, and leaped across a ditch which drained this section of
the downs.
“Run!” he whispered. He too had seen the men and guessed they were in
the confederacy. The girl gathered up all her reserve of strength and
ran like the wind, Mansingham loping easily at her side.
The wind carried the voices of their pursuers. One staccato shot rang
out, a bullet whistled past them, then someone in authority must have
given the order to stop firing. And indeed it was more dangerous for
the men than for the fugitives.
There was a coast-guard station half a mile along the cliff road,
and, although neither the girl nor Mansingham realized the fact, they
instinctively felt that the coast line offered the best means of
escape. Then suddenly Marjorie tripped and fell. Mansingham stopped
in his stride and turned to lift her. As he raised her to her feet he
uttered an exclamation of despair.
Facing him were two men, indubitably Italians, and their revolvers
covered him. He had come against the Red Hand outpost.
It was all over in ten minutes. The pursuers came up, the girl was
snatched from his protecting arms. He fought well; man after man fell
before his huge fists. Then a knife, deftly thrown, struck him by the
haft full between the eyes and he went down like a log.
Festini, breathless, his face marred by an ugly redness which was fast
developing into a bruise, directed operations.
“If you make a sound,” he said, “or attempt to attract the attention of
any person you see, you will have that person’s death on your hands,
and probably your own.”
He spoke curtly, impersonally, as though she herself were Mansingham.
“Do not hurt him,” she gasped. She referred to the prostrate form of
the farm labourer, now stirring to life. Festini made no answer. He was
of a race which did not readily forgive a blow.
“Take her away,” he said.
He remained behind with his two familiars.
“I think we will cut his throat, signor,” said Il Bue, “and that will
be an end to him.”
“And an end to us,” said Festini; “this coast is patrolled, the man
will be found, and the whole coast line searched.”
He walked a dozen paces to the edge of the cliff and looked down. There
was a sheer fall here of two hundred feet, and the tide was in.
“There is twenty feet of water here,” he said significantly.
They carried the reviving man by the head and feet to the edge of the
cliff. They swung him twice and then released their hold, his arms and
legs outstretched like a starfish. Round and round he twirled in that
brief space of time, Festini and the others watching. Then the water
splashed whitely and the dark figure disappeared.
They waited a little while, there was no reappearance, and Festini and
his lieutenant retraced their footsteps to the cottage, the third man
following.
CHAPTER XIV
TILLIZINI LEAVES A MARK
The period of ultimatum was drawing to a close. For four days longer
England had the opportunity of agreeing to the terms which the Red Hand
had laid down.
In his big library at Downing Street, occupying the chair which great
and famous men had occupied for the past century, the prime minister,
grave and preoccupied, sat in conference with Tillizini.
The Italian was unusually spick and span that morning. He had dressed
himself with great care, an ominous sign for the organization he had
set himself to exterminate. For this was one of his eccentricities,
and it had passed into a legend among the criminal classes in Italy,
that a neat Tillizini was a dangerous Tillizini. There is a saying in
Florence, “Tillizini has a new coat--who is for the galleys?”
The prime minister was fingering his pen absently, making impossible
little sketches upon his blotting pad.
“Then you associate the disappearance of Miss Marjorie Meagh with the
operations of the Red Hand?”
“I do,” said the other.
“And what of the man, Mansingham?”
“That, too,” said Tillizini. “They were seen together in a field where
Mansingham was working, his book and his coat were found as he had left
them, and then he and she walked together to the stile. He is seen by
another labourer to walk back slowly across the field, to suddenly
stoop and pick up something, probably the lady’s handkerchief or bag,
it is immaterial which. He runs back to the stile, jumps over, and
evidently follows the lady. From that moment neither he nor she is seen
again. One woman I questioned at a cottage by the roadside remembers
a big car passing about that time. I place the three circumstances
together.”
“But surely,” said the prime minister, “they would hardly take the man.
What object had they? What object in taking the lady so far as that was
concerned?”
Tillizini looked out of the window. From where he sat he commanded a
view of Green Park, a bright and spirited scene. The guard had just
been relieved at the Horse Guards, and they were riding across the
parade ground, their cuirasses glittering in the sun, their polished
helmets so many mirrors reflecting the rays of light. He watched them
sadly, and the great crowd that marched on either side of them. Not all
the arms of England, all her military and naval strength, her laws and
splendid institutions, could save her from the malignity of the Red
Hand.
He turned with a start to the prime minister, and found that gentleman
regarding him curiously.
“In a sense,” he said, “I do not mind this abduction, always providing
that neither of these people is injured. I cannot understand why they
should have bothered; but it is these side issues of private vengeance
which invariably bring the big organizations to grief.”
“Seriously, Professor Tillizini,” said the premier, “do you think that
these men will carry their threat into execution?”
“Seriously, I do,” said Tillizini. “Your experts scoffed at the idea
of the Red Hand being able to cultivate this particular germ. The Red
Hand’s reply must have been a little startling to them.” He smiled.
“If I remember rightly, they sent a little of the culture to your
Bacteriological Institute. Animals which were inoculated died with
all the symptoms which have been described by the fifteenth-century
writers.”
The premier nodded his head.
“We cannot give the money; that is impossible. You recognize that,
Professor?”
Tillizini assented.
“It would mean the negation of all law; it would create a precedent
which would put an end to all the authority of civilization; it were
better that all England should be ravaged by this disease than that
a single penny should leave the Treasury. That is my view. I am
prepared,” he said quietly, “to accept not only the responsibility of
that action, but the first consequence of these men’s machinations.
This I have intimated through the public press. The only hope is that
we may secure the culture, and not only secure it, but locate the
laboratory where the cultivation is being made. It is a hope.” He
shrugged his shoulders. “I know you are doing all you can, Tillizini,”
he said quickly, “and Scotland Yard----”
“Scotland Yard is working splendidly,” said Tillizini. “Your police
organization is rather wonderful.”
He rose to his feet.
“Four days,” he said, “is a very long time.”
“You will take any steps you deem necessary for the public safety?”
“You may be sure of that, sir,” said Tillizini.
The premier twisted his blotter in his preoccupation.
“They say of you, Professor,” he said deliberately, “that you do not
hesitate to commit what in the eyes of the law-abiding world might be
considered as criminal acts, in order to further justice.”
“I have never hesitated,” said Tillizini, “if you mean----”
“I mean nothing in particular,” said the premier; “only I tell you
this, if you deem it necessary to go outside the law to administer
preventive punishment, I assure you that I will secure you the
necessary indemnity from Parliament.”
Tillizini bowed.
“I have to thank your excellency for that,” he said, “and you may be
sure I shall not abuse the power, and that no crime I commit will ever
need an act of indemnity.”
The premier looked up in astonishment.
“Why?”
“Because,” said Tillizini, with his sweetest smile, “my crimes are
never brought home to me.”
With another bow he left the room.
Outside the house in Downing Street Inspector Crocks was waiting.
“I got you some telegrams,” he said genially. “I am rapidly
deteriorating into a private secretary.”
Tillizini smiled. A feeling of affection had grown up between these
two men, so differently constituted, so temperamentally apart. When
Crocks had been detailed to assist Tillizini in his work, there were
many skeptical people who smiled behind their hands, for anybody more
unlike the detective of fiction than the inspector could not easily
be imagined. Yet he was a shrewd, clever man, subtle to a point of
brilliancy--a rapid and effective organizer, with a knowledge of the
criminal underworld which few men possess.
Tillizini tore open the telegrams; he read them twice, then he crumpled
them into a ball and thrust them into his coat pocket. The letters,
after glancing at the address and the post-mark, he placed unopened in
the inside pocket of his frock coat.
“I didn’t show you the telegrams,” he said to the other, “because they
are in code.”
In a few words he communicated the gist of their contents. Tillizini’s
code book was in his head.
“I am going to see my decoy now.”
“Is he still alive?” asked the inspector with simulated surprise.
“He was, a few minutes ago,” said Tillizini.
For once he did not treat the subject facetiously, and the inspector
knew that the question he had put in good humour had a serious
application.
“I secured him a position,” said Tillizini suddenly; “he is an outside
porter at Victoria. It will afford him an excellent opportunity of
becoming acquainted with contrary humanity.”
“And at the same time he will be able to give you a little
information,” said Crocks. “I think it is an excellent scheme. He
doesn’t look clever, and I don’t think he is particularly clever,
but he has got the power which so few police officers possess,
unfortunately. The moment a man begins to look important his value
decreases.”
Tillizini laughed.
“Oh, unimportant man!” he said cryptically.
A few minutes later the two parted. The detective went back to
Scotland Yard and Tillizini hailed a cab and drove to an address in
south London.
At half-past twelve that day the fast train from Burboro’ to Victoria
steamed slowly into the big terminus. Vera Morte-Mannery was one of the
first to descend. Her foot touched the platform almost before the train
stopped.
She walked quickly through the barrier into the large space at the end
of the station. She looked round anxiously, and then up at the clock.
The man she sought was not there. She strolled aimlessly from one side
of the station to the other, and was returning to the bookstall, when
Festini, with rapid strides, came into the station.
She caught his eye and he checked himself and turned about carelessly.
He walked out of the station and she followed. At his uplifted finger a
car came out of the rank and drew up at the sidewalk.
Without a word she got in and he followed.
They drove in silence until the car turned into Hyde Park and slowed
down in obedience to the regulations.
Then she turned to him suddenly and, with a breaking voice, asked:
“Where is Marjorie Meagh?”
He raised his eyebrows.
“Marjorie Meagh?” he asked. “You do not mean to tell me that you have
brought me to London to ask me a question like that?”
“Where is Marjorie Meagh?” she asked again.
“How on earth should I know?”
“Festini,” she said, pleadingly, “let us be frank with one another.
Marjorie has been taken by the Red Hand. You are the Red Hand.”
“Hush!” he muttered savagely. “Don’t shout, people could hear you on
the sidewalks!”
His manner toward her had changed. It was a little cold, a little
impatient, more than a little intolerant. She had detected the changed
atmosphere the moment she had met him.
She pressed her lips tightly together and remained silent for a little
while.
“What is your object in taking her?” she asked.
“That is hidden from you. Do you not trust me?”
“Trust you!” she laughed bitterly. “Have I not trusted you to the
fullest extent?” she asked. “That question should rather come from me.
You do not trust me, Festini.”
It was less a statement than a pleading. She wanted him to deny it, but
no denial came.
“There are things which it is not right for me to tell you.”
“Why?” she asked. “Is there any secret of the Red Hand which I do not
know?”
He smiled a little uneasily.
“You did not know anything about the Fourth Plague,” he said softly.
“I do not complain of that,” she said; “it was too great a thing to
trust with any man or woman. But there is nothing so subtle in this
kidnapping of Marjorie Meagh.”
He spread out his hands with a gesture of helplessness.
“I cannot tell you,” he said. “There is something behind this which you
cannot know.”
“There is something behind it which I can guess!” she said fiercely.
“You love Marjorie--you have taken her because you love her. Don’t deny
it. I can see it in your face. Oh, you liar! You liar!”
He had never seen her like this. It was a new force he was
encountering, one which at once pleased and piqued him.
She had been all softness, all yielding to him before, an easy
conquest for this handsome man, with his soft voice and his eloquent
eyes.
In her anger she was a little terrible, but she did not terrify him. He
was used to opposition, and had a quick way with it. There was enough
of woman in him to appreciate her feelings. But, like the autocrat he
was, he resented her revolt, and in his resentment said more than it
was wise, under the circumstances, to say.
“Yes, it is true,” he said coolly. “I do love her. Why should I
deny it? I do not love you any less because I love her. She is on a
different plane from you and me.”
Vera was breathing quickly; her bosom rose and fell with the intensity
of her pent-up rage. She did not speak again for a minute; she was
conquering an insane desire to throw herself from the car, to run
anywhere out of his sight, as she had gone, she knew, out of his heart.
The fires of humiliation and jealousy burned too fiercely within her
for words.
Again and again she checked the wild torrent of speech that rose to her
lips and choked in the checking.
And this was the end! The end of her dream, the reward for all her
work, for all her treachery to those who loved her, the last stretch of
the road which she had fondly thought led to happiness.
From time to time he looked at her out of the corner of his eye.
“I understand,” she said at last, speaking composedly. “Your great plan
has come to fruition. You have no further use for me?”
“Do not say that, Vera,” he said.
He was immensely relieved to discover how well she had taken the news,
which, cold-blooded as he was, he had no desire and, if the truth be
told, no intention of telling her.
“You are indispensable,” he said. He tried to take her hand, but she
withdrew it. “It is only the exigencies of the scheme we have in hand
which has prevented me from taking you more fully into my confidence.
As to Marjorie, I want you to be generous,” he said. “I want you to
realize----”
“Oh, I understand,” she said wearily. “Were you ever sincere, Festini?
Were you ever faithful?”
She looked at him searchingly.
“I swear----” he began.
“Don’t swear,” she said. “I think I understand.” She smiled bravely.
“I’ll get out here,” she said. “I’d like a little walk. This is not
exactly the outcome of the morning’s meeting that I expected,” she
went on. “Although I was jealous, I never realized that my suspicions
were true.”
He tried by argument to persuade her to remain with him, but she was
determined. She tapped the window and the car drew up. As she alighted,
he assisted her. She held out her hand.
“Good-bye, Festini,” she said.
His eyes narrowed.
“You must see me again. There is no good-bye with me,” he said
abruptly. “I have told you you are indispensable--I mean that.”
She made no reply. Gently she relaxed her clasp, and her hand fell
listlessly to her side. Then she turned abruptly and walked away.
He stood watching her until she was out of sight. Could he trust her?
He had a large knowledge of men, a larger of women. He had weighed all
the chances; she would not betray him, he thought. These English people
love to suffer in silence, to hug to their secret hearts their greatest
griefs.
He smiled, shrugged his shoulders, and, turning to the driver, directed
him to a fashionable restaurant. For men, even great conspirators, must
lunch.
He stopped the car in Oxford Street to buy an evening newspaper. It
was filled, as had been the morning journals, with speculations on the
Fourth Plague. Would the Red Hand put their threat into execution? One
journal had found a scientist who had discovered a specific, another
gave a perfect pen picture of Tillizini. Wild and improbable rumours
found prominence; there was nothing of any real account. He was closing
the paper when a little paragraph which had evidently been inserted to
fill up caught his eye at the bottom of the column:
The unfortunate man, Mansingham, who has added to the tragic variety of
his career by being associated with the disappearance of Miss Marjorie
Meagh, was an expert swimmer, and at the annual meeting of the Burboro’
Aquatic Club last night sympathetic references were made to his
disappearance.
Festini frowned. A swimmer? Of course it was absurd. But there might
have been grave danger in throwing him into the water. He was stunned,
though, and three days had passed without any sign of his reappearance.
He knew, by careful inquiry, that no body had been picked up on the
coast, but it sometimes happened that weeks elapsed before the sea gave
up its dead. It was absurd to bother about that. But throughout his
luncheon he found the thought intruding in his mind. Suppose this man
turned up? It would have been better to follow out the suggestion of Il
Bue to kill him right away.
The waiter brought him his bill, and he paid, tipping the servant
lavishly.
He walked out of the hall into the big vestibule of the restaurant,
selected a cigar at the little cigar counter, and strolled out into
Piccadilly.
His car, driven by a trusted member of the Red Hand, followed him along
the broad, crowded thoroughfare at a snail’s pace.
At the corner of Piccadilly Circus he suddenly came face to face with
Frank Gallinford.
The Englishman was looking ill; the strain of the past few days was
telling on him. The loss of his fiancée was preying on his mind; he had
not slept. His agents were searching the country from end to end. He
had also established a little police organization of his own, for Frank
Gallinford was a fairly wealthy man.
The two men stopped, staring at each other for the fraction of a
second; then Festini held out his hand with a suave smile.
“How do you do, Mr. Gallinford?” he said.
Frank was in no mood for conversation or condolence. He uttered a few
conventional words, shook hands hurriedly, and passed on, leaving
Festini to finish his stroll.
Frank had not gone twenty yards before somebody pressed his arm softly.
He looked round. A tall man was standing at his side. At first he did
not recognize him in his rough workman’s kit and his little moustache,
but when he spoke he knew him.
“Go back after Festini,” said Tillizini quickly. “Talk to him about
anything you like, hold him in conversation for a few minutes”--he
turned and walked back with the other a little way--“and when you get
into St. James’s Street turn off to the right. The street is torn up.
Induce him by any art in your power to go to the other end of that
street.”
“But why?”
“No, do not ask why,” said Tillizini. He gave one of his rare gestures
of impatience. “Do as I tell you.”
Frank nodded. Though he had no heart for the job, he quickened his
steps and overtook Festini.
Tillizini watched them. He saw them strolling along and turn into the
street he had indicated. The waiting car on the other side of the road
entered the street and then stopped; the road was torn up, and beyond
half-way down there was no thoroughfare. The chauffeur looked round
anxiously. He had to back out and make a detour by the way of the lower
end of Regent Street and Piccadilly. He had another alternative, which
was to wait. He looked undecided. He was assisted in his decision as to
what he should do by the gesture of a policeman, who ordered him back
to the main street.
Very slowly the car backed out. It was a minute or two before he could
bring the long Napier into the stream of traffic moving up toward
Piccadilly Circus. There was a block here, and another wait ensued.
Tillizini had posted himself where he could watch every movement. He
saw the look of anxiety on the chauffeur’s face. The opportunity he
had been waiting for for the last two hours now presented itself. He
threaded his way through the block of traffic and passed the car.
He took something from his pocket and, bending over the rear wheel,
pressed down his hand upon it. A broad strip of rubber with a steel
clamp at either end.
Deftly he fixed it over the wheel. In its centre an arrow head
projected. It had been carefully prepared and only the expert,
interested in the accessories of cars, would have thought it unusual.
With one glance to see that his work had been well done, he slipped
through the traffic and gained the other side of the road. He walked
a little way down Regent Street, and from there he saw the two men
talking. Festini was walking back. He had missed the car and had
understood why it had failed to follow him.
Tillizini saw him take a hurried farewell of Frank and walk quickly up
the street. The professor smiled. It appealed to him, this spectacle of
Festini and his car playing hide-and-seek with one another.
He did not attempt to rejoin Frank; instead he called a cab, which
came reluctantly, for this man in working clothes did not inspire
confidence, and drove straight to Scotland Yard.
That night every police station in England received a notification, and
in the early hours of the morning, policemen on foot, cyclists, and
mounted men were searching the wet roads for the track of a motor car
which displayed an arrow at regular intervals.
CHAPTER XV
THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER
From her window Marjorie could see the broad and sluggish river. When
the fog did not veil every object from sight, she caught a glimpse of
big ships passing up and down; fussy little tugs drawing strings of
lighters, brown-sailed barges that went with stately leisure to the
sea. In the foreground was marshland, uncultivated.
The sluggish river, for such it was at distance of a quarter of a mile,
was the river Thames; the marshland was that unlovely stretch of swamp
on its north bank, between Southend and Barking.
By putting her face close to the window she could see a small,
low-roofed building, tarred and weatherproof, from which men in white
overalls came and went.
The house she was in was an old one, as houses go. It was built of
brick; the rooms were lofty and cold and a little damp. Even in the
room which had been allotted to her use, the paper had peeled off
the wall in great pieces, and not even the fire, which the hard-faced
Italian woman who attended her kept fed, dispelled the chilly
dreariness of the apartment.
She had been brought here by night from the house on the cliff. She had
lain down to sleep after supper in her Kentish prison and had awakened
to find herself lying in the room she now tenanted.
The knowledge that they must have drugged her food filled her with
panic.
The day following her arrival she had refused to eat or drink, and now
it was not until the Italian woman had partaken from the dishes she
supplied, before Marjorie’s eyes, that the girl consented to touch the
food.
Fortunately, she numbered amongst her accomplishments a working
knowledge of Italian. Of late she had polished up her acquaintance with
the language. Frank’s work mainly lay in Italy, and she had seen the
necessity of becoming proficient.
But she received no satisfactory reply to any of her inquiries. She had
not seen Festini since that day on the cliff, though she had heard his
voice often enough.
She guessed rather than knew that in the little low-roofed house near
by was being prepared that terrible culture which was to bring England
to her knees in submission.
Everything that Festini could do to relieve the monotony of her life,
he had done.
She was plentifully supplied with books and papers, and to serve her
table he had secured a perfect Italian cook.
The only man she had spoken to was a tall giant of a man whom she had
seen on the cliff with Festini.
He answered her questions gruffly and in monosyllables.
He had merely come into the room, she gathered, to see to the security
of the bars which had been fixed outside the window. She was ill with
anxiety; she dare not give her imagination its rein.
It was Frank she thought of--Frank, who she knew would be distracted
with grief; and at night she alternately wept and prayed for the
strength and sanctuary of his arms.
It was on the third day following her abduction. She was sitting trying
to read by the window, when the click of the lock brought her to her
feet.
She heard the voice of Festini outside, and in a moment he had come
into the room, locking the door behind him.
They stood confronting one another. She had walked swiftly to the
centre of the room and placed the table between them.
“Well?” he said, with his pleasant smile. “I hope you have everything
you want.”
She made no reply at once. Then--
“I want my freedom,” she said.
“That,” he said, with a little bow, “I am sorry I cannot grant you. It
is necessary for my health and security that you should stay a little
longer. Afterwards, I hope to make you the wife of one of the richest
men in Europe.”
“That will never be,” she said steadily. “I would sooner be the first
victim of the plague you threaten than endure that humiliation.”
He winced at the words.
“It is no humiliation,” he said, a little haughtily. “In my veins runs
the best blood of Italy. It is an honour to be the chosen bride of
Festini.”
She was amazed at the unexpected vanity of the man.
She had never regarded him, even at the most friendly period of their
relationship, as more than a rather good-looking, well-mannered member
of the middle classes. That he should esteem his birth as being
sufficient to make him superior to censure was a strange point of view.
She looked at him, in spite of herself, with an added interest.
“I ask you to be my wife,” he said.
He emphasized the words.
“You ought to realize that, in addition to doing you an honour, I am
also acting with great magnanimity. You are here alone,” he said,
“entirely and absolutely at my mercy. You are surrounded by men and
women who would question no act of mine, however barbarous it might
seem to you. Do you understand?”
She understood too well.
She was safe unless she made quasi-friendly relationships impossible.
She had need to temporize.
He may have guessed what was passing in her mind.
“Understand,” he said, “there is no escape from here, except as my
wife. I will be patient without you. I have been patient with you,” he
went on. “To-morrow a priest will marry us according to the rites of my
Church.”
“To-morrow!” she gasped.
“To-morrow,” he said, a little mockingly. “It is rather soon, is it
not? And you have no trousseau!”
He waved the objection away.
“That is a detail which can either be arranged or can be overridden.”
He made no attempt to touch her.
“May I sit down?” he asked.
She nodded, and he drew a chair forward to the table and seated himself.
“I think I ought to take you a little into my confidence,” he said,
in his pleasant, matter-of-fact manner. “It is necessary to expedite
matters. Your friend--how do you pronounce his name--Mansingham?--was
picked up by a fishing smack. I think he swam out to sea and picked up
the smack, but it is immaterial. He is alive, and, I have reason to
believe, talkative.”
He saw the look of hope spring up in her face, and smiled.
“The fact that he will be able to identify me with this act of
abduction,” he went on, “embarrasses me, but, fortunately, our scheme
is so far advanced that there is no longer any necessity for me to
disguise my association with the Red Hand.
“The only thing which is a trifle annoying is that I must stay in this
deadly place a few more days. All the work that is to be done my
agents can do. But for your presence here it would be an impossible
situation. Not for all the gold in England could I rusticate by the
banks of the Thames--alone.”
His dazzling smile bewildered the girl. He had a trick of discussing
the most outrageous propositions with a serious and convincing air. It
was all superficial, but then his superficiality bit deeper into him
than into most men.
At heart she knew him to be a cold-blooded and remorseless man who
would stop at nothing to gain his ends. It was only that the veneer
of civilization was thicker, that the brute within him did not lie so
close to the surface, which distinguished him from his comrades.
But the streak of cruelty was there, as he showed.
“By the way,” he said, “I met Mr. Gallinford the other day, and
condoled with him upon your disappearance.”
“You brute!” she flamed. “How dare you mock me!”
“I like you when you are like that,” he said admiringly. “You almost
tempt me to continue to tell how ill and worn he looks.”
He laughed, but there was no note of merriment in the sound.
“A singularly thick-headed man! Had he been an Italian he would
have known by my face, by the change in my eyes when your name was
mentioned, that it was I”--he pointed to himself--“who had robbed him.
But then these Englishmen are so phlegmatic! They soon forget. You
must not worry very much about your Frank,” he said, as he rose to go.
“In a year or two he will have married some comfortable Englishwoman,
and have settled down to a life made up with shooting pheasants and
discussing defective drainage.”
She was incapable of reply.
He went out of the room and locked the door behind him, leaving her
alone, with her head on her arms--weeping from very anger.
He found Il Bue in the room below with two men who had just come in
from the laboratory he had arranged in the wooden shed.
“Well?” he asked moodily, as he flung himself into a chair at the head
of the table. “What are the developments?”
“Signor,” said one of the men, “everything is ready. We have secured
perfect cultures, even more perfect than those dispatched to the
Bacteriological Institute.”
Festini nodded.
“To-morrow I shall receive the government’s reply. I have asked them to
advertise that reply in the columns of a newspaper.”
“And what will it be?” asked Il Bue, his eyes fixed upon Festini’s face.
Festini shrugged.
“Who knows?” he said. “I think at the eleventh hour they will agree to
my terms.”
One of the assistants in white was a thick-set man with a sour,
bad-tempered face. He took no part in the subsequent discussion on the
methods to be adopted for the distribution of the plague.
Festini had made elaborate precautions and had issued exhaustive
literature for distribution amongst the members of the Red Hand.
He was sincere in his desire that the agents of his organization should
escape the consequences of their own villainy.
When the discussion was finished, the surly man jerked his head round
to Festini. He was sitting on his right hand, his elbows on the table,
his big, fleshy hands clasped.
“What about this woman, Signor Festini?” he asked.
The young man looked at him steadily.
“‘This woman’?” he repeated softly. “I do not know whom you mean.”
The stout man jerked his head upward. He was the kind of man who moved
in jerks.
“She who is upstairs,” he said.
Festini got up very slowly from the table.
“You will understand, Gregorio,” he said, in his honeyed tones, “that
you will never refer to that lady in such a way. Indeed,” he said
carefully, “you will never refer to her at all.”
“There are no secrets from the brethren,” grumbled the man. “We all
want to know what is the plan with regard to her.”
Without a word Festini’s hand leaped out; his quick, strong fingers
caught the other by the throat; with a sidelong twist he forced the
man’s head back over the table.
Festini was a strong man despite his frail physique.
“You dog!” he hissed into the man’s purple face. “Must I answer to you
for all I do?”
The man struggled to recover his balance, but a long bright blade
flashed in front of his eyes.
Festini hesitated, then he released his grip, and the man staggered up
to his feet.
“Remember this,” said the count. “Remember it all your life, Gregorio.
It may serve you well one day--the recollection.”
The man was livid and shaking.
“I’m sorry, signor,” he said humbly; “it was thoughtless. I did not
intend to offend your excellency.”
With a curt nod Festini dismissed him.
“And understand,” he said, “that I will not spare any man who speaks
slightingly or lightly of the lady who is to be the Countess Festini.
There is my plan, if you wish to know it. That is enough--too much,
perhaps--certainly enough. I give you my best--you must give me
obedience and faith. That is all I ask.”
He was in no mood of tolerance. George Mansingham had arrived in
England, and by this time Tillizini knew what he had already guessed.
London was unsafe for Festini, and he was the type of man who scorned
any disguise.
He must fret away his time in this God-forsaken spot; the fulfilment of
his plans demanded it.
He stopped in the house long enough to don the white overall which had
distinguished his companions, and went into the long wooden shed, Il
Bue and the two men joining him at the entrance of the hut.
The only light came through a big skylight. House and shed had formed
part of a boat-builder’s establishment, long since bankrupt and fallen
into decay. It suited his purpose admirably. It was far enough away
from the high road to obtain seclusion. He had a plausible excuse for
the presence of his men. The premises were ostensibly part of the
properties of a little company he had formed some time before for the
manufacture of synthetic rubber.
There is something about synthetic rubber and its manufacturers and
inventors which keeps an amused public at bay.
The shed was divided into two parts. In the first there were a number
of test tubes, retorts, and scientific apparatus upon a large bench.
The entrance to the second room was obtained through a stout door,
which was fastened by two padlocks.
These the big man unfastened. Before he opened the door he pulled up
from his chin an antiseptic mask, which he brought over his face and
secured to the hood of his white gown.
The others followed his example.
They took up rubber gloves from the bench in the outer room and drew
them on. Il Bue pulled the door open and a faint sweet scent came out
to greet them.
In the centre of the inner and smaller compartment was a long narrow
table on which, at intervals, rested four deep porcelain dishes under
glass bell covers.
They were no more to the sight than narrow strips of glass coated with
a light brown gelatinous substance, but each glass case held death in a
terrible form.
Festini looked at them curiously. It was almost impossible to believe
that these innocent-looking strips of dull glass could play so powerful
a part.
“That is all?” said he, half to himself.
“That is all, signor,” said Il Bue.
His big face was twisted in a puzzled grin.
“It seems a very simple thing,” he said suspiciously. “Why, I could
smash it out of existence with a blow of my fist.”
The man with the sour face looked up at him sideways.
“You would die very soon,” he said.
He was the chemist of the party, a brilliant man with strange gifts,
who had been brought into association with the Red Hand and found an
outlet in their operations for the lawless and perverse spirit within
him.
Festini turned and led the way from the room. He waited till Il Bue
re-padlocked the door, then he stepped out of the shed, slipping down
his mask.
The fresh air came to him like a sweet, refreshing draught; it seemed
to him that he had tasted the very atmosphere of death and desolation
in that tiny room; that it was already tainted with the plague he was
about to spread widecast.
He made no other attempt to see the girl; he was satisfied with that
one interview. He remained in his room, reading by the aid of a
portable electric lamp such comments of the press upon the Red Hand as
his agents had collected.
At ten o’clock there were two new arrivals. In one of these Festini
was particularly interested; it was the priest he had secured for the
marriage ceremony.
Psychologists have endeavoured to get at the state of Festini’s mind;
to analyze by set formula the exact proportions. Was he wholly villain?
Were the fantastic acts of chivalry, preposterous as they were, under
the circumstances in which they were displayed, indications of a better
nature?
Tillizini, in his exhaustive analysis of the man’s character, had
regarded such acts as this contemplated marriage as merely evidence of
habit. Festini’s long association with men and women of his class had
endowed him with an habitual respect for certain conventions. This was
Tillizini’s estimate, and was probably an accurate one, for he knew the
man.
The priest he had chosen had been brought post-haste from Italy and had
travelled night and day. He was a man known to the association as being
“safe”; he himself was suspected of complicity in certain outrages
which had shocked Italy in the year before the great trial. He himself
had stood with the other sixty prisoners in a cage in the criminal
court, but, thanks to ingenious perjury, he had escaped punishment.
Festini greeted him without cordiality, with the grave respect which
a true son of the Church shows to his spiritual superior, and with
the faint hint of patronage which the greater intellect instinctively
adopts toward the lesser.
He gave orders for the priest’s accommodation, and, after the brief
interview, was again left alone.
It was near midnight when Festini threw himself down on a truckle bed
to snatch a few hours’ sleep. In the early hours of the morning his
spies would bring him news of the premier’s reply. He fell into an
uneasy, fitful sleep, a sleep disturbed by bad dreams, such as were not
usual with him.
There came a light knock and he went to the door. Il Bue was waiting.
“What is it?” asked Festini.
“One of the brethren has just come in,” said the man, who was palpably
disturbed. “He came on his bicycle from where he has been watching the
London road, and he says that some soldiers are marching from London.”
Festini made a gesture of impatience.
“Did you wake me to tell me that?” he asked irritably. “Haven’t you
been long enough in England, my friend, to know that soldiers have
nothing whatever to do with police work? This is not Italy, it is
England. Go--tell your scout to return to his post, to watch not for
the army, but for Tillizini and his friends.”
He went back to his room and again lay on the bed, pulling a soft,
camel’s-hair rug over him. He tossed from side to side but could not
sleep; he got up after a little while and went out. A man was keeping
guard outside the door.
“Go to Caterina,” he said, “and tell her to make me some chocolate.”
A few minutes later the woman brought him in a steaming bowl on a
tray. She set it before him and he acknowledged it with a curt word of
thanks, when a thought occurred to him.
“Caterina,” he said, calling her back, “your lady is well?”
“Yes, padrone,” she replied. “I saw her two hours ago, before she was
asleep.”
Festini nodded.
“See her again now,” he said. “I will go up with you.”
Taking a lamp from the bracket in the narrow passage of the house, the
woman led the way upstairs, and Festini followed.
He waited outside the door whilst the woman unlocked it and entered. He
heard a smothered exclamation.
“Padrone!” cried the woman wildly. “Padrone!”
He rushed into the room. The little bed in the corner was empty. The
window was open and three of the bars were missing. Marjorie Meagh had
gone!
CHAPTER XVI
TILLIZINI ADDRESSES THE HOUSE
Though it was past midnight the streets of London were alive with
people; shops were open, lights blazed from windows which ordinarily
would have been in darkness. The motor services which carried the
Londoner to and from his home were still running; special editions of
the evening papers were on sale in the streets, and about the House of
Commons, where the crowd grew in intensity, they found a ready sale.
Between Whitehall and Victoria Street some thirty thousand people had
assembled, but the police had no difficulty in controlling the assembly
or in securing a passageway for the constant stream of cars which were
passing to and from the House of Commons. The character of the crowd
was an interesting one. These were no idle sightseers, attracted by the
chance of a little excitement; it was the silk-hatted middle class of
England, overcoated, muffled, bespectacled, waiting patiently for news
which meant all the difference between life and death to them.
For once in its history the House of Commons was sitting in secret
session. At eleven o’clock that night, by the Speaker’s direction, the
galleries had been cleared, and strangers had been excluded not only
from the lobby but from the precincts of the House. Parliament had
resolved itself into a national jury.
At five minutes after twelve a great car, covered with dust, came
slowly along Whitehall. It bore three small lamps on its radiator,
arranged in the form of a triangle. Unchallenged, the car passed Bridge
Street and into Palace Yard. About the entrance of the House were a
crowd of policemen, but they made way for the tall man in the dusty
coat who sprang from the seat by the side of the driver. Two men were
waiting for him: Hilary George, K. C., was one, and Inspector Crocks
the other.
The three passed into the interior of the House and made their way to a
small committee room which had been prepared for them.
“Well?” asked Crocks. His face was of an unusual pallor, and he spoke
with the irritability which is peculiar to the man undergoing a great
nervous strain.
Tillizini slowly divested himself of his greatcoat, laid it across a
chair, and walked to the fire. He stood for awhile, warming his hands
at the blaze; then he spoke.
“I have located them,” he said, “definitely.”
“Thank God!” said Crocks.
“There is no doubt?” asked Hilary.
Tillizini shook his head. He took a book from his inside pocket, opened
it, and extracted three slips of paper. They were advertisements cut
from a newspaper of the week before.
“I don’t know,” he said, “whether you have noticed these?”
They bent over the table, the three heads together, reading the
advertisements.
“I cannot understand it,” said Hilary; “this is an advertisement
offering good prices for pigeons.” He examined the other. “This is the
same,” he said.
“They’re all the same,” said Tillizini quietly. “Do you notice that
they advertise that they want old pigeons?”
Hilary nodded.
“The address is at a place in London. The man who advertised had
thousands of replies, and has made thousands of purchases, too.
Throughout the week basket after basket of birds has come consigned to
him at the various London termini; they have been collected by the
agents of the Red Hand and forwarded to Festini.”
“But why?” asked Crocks, puzzled. “He’s not going to start a
pigeon-shooting competition?”
Tillizini laughed. He had walked back to the fire and was bending over
it, his hands almost touching the flames.
“If you will believe me,” he said, “I have been looking for that
advertisement for quite a long time.” He straightened himself and
stood with his back to the fire, his hands behind him. Then he asked
suddenly: “How is the Red Hand to distribute the germs of this plague?
Has that thought ever occurred to you? How can they, without danger to
themselves, spread broadcast the seeds of the Black Death?”
“Good heavens!” said Hilary, as the significance of the move suddenly
dawned upon him.
“To-morrow morning,” Tillizini went on, “if the premier’s reply is
unfavourable, they will release these thousands of pigeons, and release
also, in a portable form, sufficient of the culture to spread death in
whichever neighbourhood the pigeon lands. Naturally, being old birds,
they will fly straight back to the homes they have left. It is very
ingenious. They might, of course, have done the same thing by post, but
there was a certain amount of risk attached to that. The present
method is one which would appeal to Festini. I arrested a man this
afternoon who has been collecting the birds. He is obviously one of the
Red Hand, though he protests against such an imputation.”
“What is to be done?” asked Hilary. “You had better see the prime
minister at once.”
The door opened and a young man came in hurriedly.
“Is Professor Tillizini here?” he asked.
Hilary indicated the Italian.
“Will you come at once, Professor? The prime minister wishes you to
stand at the bar of the House to explain to the honourable members
exactly the position.”
Tillizini nodded.
He followed his conductor along the broad corridor, across the lobby,
through two swing doors. He suddenly found himself in a large chamber;
it gave him the impression of being dimly lighted. On either side he
saw row after row of faces rising in tiers. At the farther end, behind
a big table surmounted by a gold mace, sat a wigged and gowned figure
on a canopied chair. Near the table on his left a man rose and spoke
to the speaker. Tillizini could not hear the words he said. A moment
later the grave figure in the wig and gown invited him forward.
Tillizini knew something of the august character of this legislative
assembly; he knew, since it was his business to know, with what
jealousy it guarded its doors against the unelected stranger, and he
experienced a feeling of unreality as he walked along the floor of the
House and made his way, at the invitation of the premier’s beckoning
finger, to a place on the front bench.
The House was in silence. A faint murmur of “Hear, hear,” had greeted
him, but that had died away. A strange figure he made, still powdered
with the fine dust of the road, unshaven, grimy.
He sank down on the cushioned bench by the premier’s side, and looked
with curious eyes at the Mother of Parliaments.
Amidst dead silence the prime minister rose and addressed the speaker.
“Mr. Speaker,” he said, “it is within my province, had I so desired,
to have asked you to vacate the chair and for the House to resolve
itself into a committee. Under those circumstances we should have had
extensive powers, one such power being our right to summon any stranger
before us to give evidence.
“But the time is so very short, and the issues are so very serious,
that I have asked you to rule, as an extraordinary ruling, that
Professor Tillizini be allowed to address the House from this place.”
The prime minister sat down, and the bearded man in the chair looked
at Tillizini and nodded again. For a moment the professor did not
understand its significance; then a whispered word from the premier
at his side brought him to his feet, a little embarrassed, a little
bewildered.
He spoke hesitatingly, halting now and then for a word, thanking the
House for its indulgence and for the remarkable privilege it had
granted him.
“The prime minister,” he went on, “has asked me to give you a brief
outline of the history of the Red Hand. He thinks, and I agree, that
you should be made fully aware of one fact only that the Red Hand
threatens to perform.”
For five minutes he traced the history of the organization: its growth
from the famous Three Finger Society of Sicily; he spoke briefly of its
crimes, both on the Continent and in America, for he had the details at
his fingertips, and he himself had been engaged in unravelling many of
the mysteries which had surrounded the work of these men.
“I do not know,” he said, “what plans this Parliament has formed
for ridding the country of so dangerous and so terrible a force. No
plan”--he spoke earnestly and emphatically, and punctuated his speech
with characteristic gestures--“which you may decide upon can be
effective unless it includes some system of physical extermination.
I do not make myself clear, perhaps,” he said hurriedly, “although I
have a very large acquaintance with your language.” He emphasized his
point with one finger on the palm of his hand. “These men are going to
destroy you and your kind. Believe me, they will have no compunction;
the plague will be spread throughout England unless you take the most
drastic steps within the next few hours. There is no existing law on
the statute books which exactly provides for the present situation. You
must create a new method to deal with a new crime, and, Mr. Speaker,
whatever this House does, whatever steps it takes, however dreadful
may be the form of punishment which it, in its wisdom, may devise, it
cannot be too drastic or too severe to deal with the type of criminal
organization which the Red Hand represents. I can, if I wish,” he
said, with a smile, “arrest fifty members of the Red Hand to-night. I
could, with a little care, succeed in assassinating Festini.”
He spoke in a matter-of-fact tone, as though assassination were
everyday work, and a little shiver ran through the House. He was
sensible to such undefinable impressions in others.
“You do not like the word,” he said, with a smile, “and neither do I.
I used it because I felt that it was a word which would be more in
keeping with the facts from your point of view. To me, some removals
are justified; they are more: they are necessary. One must meet cunning
with cunning, crime with crime. The law does not adequately meet all
modern crime, even the English law. Science has produced a new type
of criminal; but the modern parliaments of the world have not as yet
devised a new type of punishment. The criminal code requires drastic
revisions, as drastic as those which it received when it erased from
its statute book such awful and vindictive punishments as were accorded
to sheep stealers.”
He went on to tell as much of his later discoveries as he felt it
was expedient to announce to the House. He could never overcome his
suspicion of crowds. The House of Commons, with its serried ranks
of members, was a crowd to him, an intellectual, a sympathetic and
brilliant crowd, but a crowd, nevertheless, which might contain, for
aught he knew, one man who would betray his plans to the enemy.
The House gasped when told the story of the pigeons.
“I understand,” he said, “that you have a bill in contemplation; the
terms of that bill have been briefly communicated to me, and I can
tell you, Mr. Speaker, and the members of this House, that there is no
provision in that measure which is not justified by the circumstances.
Within seven days,” he said solemnly, “this country will be ravaged
by the most malignant form of epidemic disease that has been known
in modern history. The horrors of the great plague of London will be
multiplied, the ports of every foreign country will be closed to your
commerce; you will be shunned by every grain-bearing ship that sails
the sea.
“You are face to face, not only with death in its most terrible
form, but with starvation, with anarchy, with civil war perhaps. And
yet, knowing this, I tell you that you would be false to your great
traditions if you paid one single penny to this infamous confederacy.”
He sat down amidst a murmured cheer. In a few minutes he had walked
out behind the speaker’s chair and was in the prime minister’s sitting
room. That statesman came in soon afterwards.
“The bill will pass to-night,” he said; “the lords are sitting, and I
hope to get the assent early in the morning. Can you rest to-night,
Professor?”
Tillizini shook his head.
“There is no rest for me to-night,” he said.
He looked at his watch. The hands pointed to a quarter after twelve.
An attendant brought in a tray with coffee. After he had retired, the
prime minister asked:
“You are satisfied with such steps as we have taken?”
Tillizini nodded.
“Yes, I think the number will be sufficient.”
“We have sent four infantry brigades by route march to-night,” said the
premier. “The cavalry and artillery are coming from Colchester.”
“The destroyers?” asked Tillizini.
“They left Chatham at sunset to-night with orders to steam slowly up
the river.”
Tillizini nodded again.
“There will be one waiting for you at Tilbury,” said the prime
minister; “that was in accordance with your wishes.”
A few minutes later Tillizini entered his car, wrapped in his
greatcoat, and the limousine sped noiselessly out through the guarded
gate, through the press of people in Whitehall, into Trafalgar Square,
then turned to the right along the Strand. It slowed down to pass a
market van which had emerged from the street leading from Waterloo
Bridge. As it did so a man walked quickly from the sidewalk and leaped
on to the footboard of the car.
He was a middle-aged man, poorly dressed, and he was apparently
Italian, for it was in that language he said:
“Signor Tillizini?”
“Yes,” said Tillizini, in the same language.
The man made no reply. His hand went up with a lightning jerk. Before
his fingers had closed on the trigger, Tillizini’s had grasped the
pistol near the trigger guard. He half rose to his feet and, with a
quick swing of his body such as wrestlers employ, he pulled the man
into the car. It was all over in a second. Before the passers-by and
the loungers about the sidewalk realized what had happened, the man
was in the car, his pistol reposed in Tillizini’s pocket, and the
Italian detective’s foot was pressing lightly but suggestively on his
throat.
“Keep very still,” said Tillizini, bending over. “Put your hands up,
so.”
The man obeyed with a whimper of pain; then something hard and cold
snapped around his wrists.
“Now you may sit up,” said Tillizini.
He dragged the man to his feet and threw him into a corner seat. From
his breast pocket he produced a little electric lamp and flashed it in
the man’s face.
“Oh, yes,” said Tillizini, with a little laugh. “I think I have seen
you before.”
He recognized him as one of the many thousands of agents which the Red
Hand possessed.
“What are you going to do with me, signor?” asked the man sullenly.
“That I will tell you later,” replied the other.
In the East India Dock Road he stopped the car at a police station
and bundled the captive out. The inspector was inclined to resent the
spectacle of a strange-looking foreign gentleman hauling a handcuffed
compatriot into the charge room. But at a word from Tillizini he
became obsequiousness itself.
“Search him,” said Tillizini.
He unlocked the handcuffs, a pair of his own, and two constables,
with scientific deftness born of experience, made a quick but careful
examination of the man’s possessions. He seemed to be well supplied
with money, Tillizini noticed; he had no papers of any kind. A pencil
and two stamps and some unaddressed telegraph forms comprised the sum
of his property.
Tillizini carried the telegraph forms to the inspector’s desk and
examined them carefully. They were innocent of address or writing, but
he saw impressions which showed that another telegram had been written
on top of one of them with pencil. He looked at it closely but he could
detect nothing. From his pocket he took a soft crayon and gently rubbed
the impression over. Gradually the words came to light. The address was
unintelligible. It had evidently been written upon a harder substance.
There were two words in Italian, and Tillizini had little difficulty in
deciphering them.
“Lisa goes,” he read.
He looked at the man.
“Who is Lisa?” he asked. But before the prisoner could shake his head
in pretended ignorance, Tillizini knew, and smothered an exclamation
that came to his lips.
Vera had gone to her sometime lover. Here was a complication indeed.
CHAPTER XVII
MARJORIE CROSSES THE MARSH
Marjorie had retired for the night at eleven o’clock. She had given
up an attempt to bar the door against intruders, for her efforts to
barricade herself in had been resented by the woman, and, moreover,
they had been so ineffectual as to render the attempt a waste of time
and energy.
The house boasted one story--the ground and the first floor; her room
was on the upper floor at the back of the house. It had been chosen
partly for the reason that it was undoubtedly the most habitable of the
apartments which the ramshackle dwelling boasted, and partly because
from this position she could see little or nothing of the movements of
those members of the Red Hand who were engaged in the nefarious work of
preparing the culture.
The night was an unusually clear one, and when, after half an hour of
sleeplessness, she rose to escape from the tumult of thought which
assailed her, her steps turned instinctively to the one outlet
upon the world which the room afforded. She leaned her arms on the
old-fashioned window-sill and looked wistfully out to the twinkling
points of light upon the river.
No sound broke the stillness of the night. The house was wrapped in
silence. Now and then there came to her the faint echo of a siren
farther down the river. She stood for some time, and then, with a
shiver, realized that the night was by no means warm.
Festini and his servants had provided her with a long black cloak. She
took it down from its peg on the wall and wrapped it about her. Her
fingers were still busy with the fastening at her throat when a little
sharp, metallic tap at the window made her turn with a start.
Her heart beat quickly as she stood motionless, watching. She waited
nearly a minute before it came again. It was as though somebody were
at the window.... There could be nobody there, she told herself. She
walked softly to the window and opened it. The bars had been so placed
that they came almost flush with the brickwork. It was impossible for
her to see who stood directly below.
She waited a little while longer and heard a hiss. She stood back. She
did not know why, but it seemed that the unknown was warning her. Then
something fell on the floor at her feet.
She stooped and ran her hand lightly along the uncarpeted boards.
Presently she found what she sought. It was a little pebble, but she
was led to it by catching her fingers in a thin piece of twine, and by
and by she had drawn up to the window a piece of thicker string.
She understood its meaning now. Rapidly she drew it in. There was a
heavier weight at the end of it, and presently she came upon a stout,
closely woven hemp rope. This was the end of the series. Somebody on
the ground without held the rope with gentle firmness.
Her hands trembling with excitement, she knotted the end about one of
the bars of the window, and felt the man outside test the strength of
it. Again and again he pulled as she watched anxiously the amateur
knots she had tied.
To her delight they showed no signs of slipping.
The rope went taut again. There was a steady strain on it. She heard no
sound, and it was with a startling suddenness that the bare head of a
man appeared above the window-sill; he reached up and clasped a bar and
came to rest sitting lightly on the ledge without.
“Don’t make a sound,” he whispered. He went to work methodically. The
bars had been screwed onto a square of wood fitted into the window
space, stapled and morticed into the brickwork itself.
She could not see his face, and he spoke too low for her ordinarily to
recognize his voice; but this was Tillizini, and she knew it. He lost
no time. A little electric lamp showed him the method by which the bars
were fastened. They had been screwed on from the outside, sufficient
security for the girl within, though offering no serious obstacle to a
man armed with a screwdriver without.
Tillizini worked at fever heat. Clinging on to one bar, with one of
his thin legs thrust through into the room, he had two bars out in ten
minutes.
As he removed them he handed them to the girl, and she placed them
quietly upon the bed.
He stepped lightly into the room, re-tied the rope to one of the
remaining bars, fastened one end about her waist, and assisted her
through the window.
“Stay at the bottom until I come,” he said.
She had not long to wait; whilst her fingers were still unfastening the
knot around her waist Tillizini was coming down the rope hand over
hand.
“Wait!” he whispered. He disappeared into the darkness in the direction
of the shed. Piled up alongside was basket after basket of a pattern.
He walked swiftly along, unfastening the trap-fronts as he did so. Soon
it would be light, and at the first sign of dawn the pigeons would
begin their homeward flight. He returned to the girl.
“Move very slowly,” he whispered, “and follow me.”
They crouched down, and almost at a crawl crossed the big yard, the
limits of which were still defined. They gained the marsh which lay
between them and the river.
Still Tillizini showed no signs of abandoning his caution, and the
girl, cramped and aching from her unaccustomed exertions, wondered why
he still moved almost on hands and knees when the danger seemed to be
past.
The ground underfoot was swampy: with every step she went ankle-deep
into liquid mud; she was breathing with difficulty, and her back ached
with an intolerable, nagging pain. She felt she could go no farther;
it seemed to her that she had been moving for hours across miles of
country, although, in fact, she had not gone two hundred yards from
the house, when Tillizini stopped, and motioned her forward.
“Stay here,” he whispered.
Although the marsh was apparently a dead level, there were little
hummocks and rises at irregular intervals, and toward one of the former
he moved stealthily.
She thought she saw the black figure of a man sitting on the one dry
space in the marsh, but fancy plays strange tricks on a dark and
starless night, and her heart had beaten wildly a dozen times during
that agonizing crawl at imaginary figures contesting her way of escape.
The man on the hummock was no figment of imagination, however; he sat
cross-legged like a tailor, a big sheepskin rug about his shoulders, a
long-barrelled revolver on his knee.
The duty of outpost in this direction had fallen to Gregorio, the
sour-faced man who had aroused Festini’s anger earlier during the day.
The Red Hand had established a system of sentries to preclude any
surprises, and from where he sat Gregorio could keep a clear lookout
upon the river approaches to the house.
He sat wide awake and alert, his fingers touching the trigger of
his revolver. All this Tillizini guessed rather than saw. He knew
that any act of violence, unless it was unexpected and deadly, would
produce an alarm. The bold way was the only means possible. He rose
and straightened himself, and went squelching forward across the oozy
ground.
Gregorio heard him and sprang to his feet.
“Who’s there?” he asked softly.
“It is I, brother,” said Tillizini in Italian.
He yawned.
“Is anything wrong?” asked Gregorio, peering forward in the darkness to
distinguish the newcomer.
Tillizini’s answer was to yawn again loudly and prodigiously, as one
who had been recently wakened from his proper sleep and had reluctantly
obeyed the summons.
His yawn extended for the half a dozen paces that separated him from
the sentry.
Gregorio had no suspicion. His finger mechanically went from the
trigger to the butt of the revolver, which now hung loosely at his side.
“What d----?” he began again.
Then like a bolt from a crossbow Tillizini launched himself at the
man’s throat. His left hand gripped the revolver and wrenched it from
the man’s hand. In that motion he had him by the throat, and the two
men were rolling on the ground.
The sentry’s yell for help was strangled in his throat.
Marjorie, a dozen yards away, kneeling in the cold marsh with clasped
hands and parted lips, heard the sound of the struggle, and heard, too,
a stifled cry, and then a silence.
A few seconds later Tillizini came back to her.
“You may get up,” he said softly, “there is no need for any further
concealment.”
He gave her his arm and assisted the half-fainting girl the remainder
of the journey.
At the water’s edge he found the little Canadian canoe that had carried
him across the river, and helped her into it. He followed, and seizing
his paddle, with two strokes he sent the little craft swiftly into the
stream.
CHAPTER XVIII
THE WOMAN
Festini stared dumbfounded at the window. He saw the dangling rope, and
knew in what deadly peril he stood.
The girl had been rescued from the outside; he saw the bars laid on the
bed, and the little heap of twine and cord beneath the window told its
own story.
With a curse of rage he ran from the room.
In a moment he had the house roused.
In the rooms below a dozen trusted members of the Red Hand were
sleeping; another dozen were out watching the roads.
“They cannot have gone far,” said Festini. “On your life see that they
are captured.”
He himself went with a man in the direction of the river, the most
likely way of escape. He knew every position his scouts occupied,
and he half walked and half ran through the clogging marsh to where
Gregorio had been posted. He was the most reliable of all the men who
were on duty.
He came to the foot of the little hummock, and called softly.
Gregorio made no reply.
Festini ran up the gentle slope. He flashed his lamp over a prostrate
form.
“Turn him over,” he said calmly.
He looked down at the dead man’s face, and a weary foreboding of defeat
oppressed him. Without a word he turned and walked slowly back to the
house.
Every step he took said, “Tillizini! Tillizini! Tillizini!”
This was the end. He knew it. His mind was less occupied with thoughts
of escape than with a riot of plans to make his exit memorable.
The premier had refused.
He did not require the arrival of a messenger to tell him that.
Tillizini had located the laboratory--that fact was evident. How,
Festini could not guess, but the last card of the Red Hand was
not played. He had still the germs of this terrible disease. They
themselves would be the first victims and leave behind their dreadful
heritage to humanity.
He wondered why the professor had not struck at him. Surely at this,
the eleventh hour, he felt no compunction? Festini dismissed the
possibility with a smile. He knew the breed too well to imagine that
pity or any tender sentiment could influence the anthropologist.
Then he remembered the girl. She explained all. It would be Tillizini’s
first care to place her in safety.
He left word that the guard should be narrowed to a smaller circle
about the house. He went to his room, searched his pockets, and found
letters which he had no desire should fall into the hands of the enemy.
He burned them and sat down to the table to write a letter. He was in
the midst of this when Il Bue came in.
“Our men have found a woman,” he said.
“A woman!” Festini jumped to his feet, his eyes kindling.
“It is not your lady, signor,” said the man, and the other’s heart sank
like a plummet.
“Where did you find her? What was she doing?”
“Making her way to the house,” said Il Bue.
“Bring her here.”
In a few minutes the man returned and ushered a woman into the room.
Festini, dapper and handsome in his well-fitting greatcoat, his feet
covered with the mud of the marsh, stood, his hand resting on the
bare table, an electric reading lamp the only illumination the room
possessed.
It was innocent of furniture; save for the dull glow of the fire in the
broken hearth, it was cheerless. The damp had stripped the walls of its
paper; there was an indefinable air of decay in the room.
The woman standing in the doorway took all this in as she advanced
slowly toward him, her eyes fixed on his face.
“Vera!” he gasped, and stared.
She nodded.
“Let your man go away,” she said.
At a sign from Festini the big man withdrew, closing the door behind
him.
“Why have you come? How did you get here? How did you know I was here?”
He fired the questions at her.
She made no reply, taking off her long fur coat deliberately.
“I have come,” she said at last, “to be with you at the great moment.”
His brows knit. “What do you mean?” he said.
“You are doomed, Festini. I discovered it last night. Sir Ralph had
confidential information from the government ordering him to be present
at the end.”
“The end?” he repeated. “I don’t understand. When is the end to be?”
“To-day,” she answered steadily.
“But you, you,” he said, “why have you come?”
She did not speak for a moment; her eyes were still fixed on his.
“I have served you well,” she said slowly. “Let me serve you to the
end.”
“But there may be danger for you.”
“There will be danger,” she said.
“I cannot allow this; go back to your friends. Leave me to fight this
out alone.”
She shook her head with a little smile.
“We fight this out together, Festini. I have come to stay. They have
traced you.”
“Tillizini?” he asked, without resentment.
She nodded.
“He saw your car in town, suspected you, fastened a band to the wheel.
That band bore a particular mark. I did not know this until last night.
The police all over the country have been examining the roads for signs
of that car. Tillizini did the rest.”
“I see. What is happening?”
“The place is surrounded,” she said.
“Surrounded?” He did not raise his voice. He was not, apparently,
alarmed. He put the question eagerly; it seemed to her that his
interest in the method which had been employed to trap him was greater
than any dread of the consequence.
“How do you mean?”
She led him to the window of the room. It was on the opposite side of
the house to that which Marjorie had been confined, and commanded an
uninterrupted view of the country for six or seven miles. The overnight
mists had cleared away and it was a calm, still night. The low hills of
the horizon could be easily distinguished.
He saw a sprinkling of lights that were familiar to him. They were the
lights of a hamlet, two miles distant, and at intervals a flickering
gleam told him where the road lay.
They watched in silence. Then, of a sudden, they saw a new light. It
was whiter than the others; it flickered three times, and was dark;
flickered again at irregular intervals, and kept winking and winking,
as though it were a candle blown by the wind.
“I understand,” he said. “That is a signal lamp. Are there soldiers?”
She nodded.
“There are a dozen regiments on this side alone,” she said.
“Infantry?” he asked.
“Yes,” she replied, “and horse soldiers, and I saw guns coming through
Witham.”
“And on the river side?” he asked.
“I think they have some torpedo boats. They came up from Chatham last
night.”
He walked round to the other side of the house, but could see nothing.
He went back to his room and found a pair of night glasses, and
searched the river with a long and steady scrutiny.
Then he distinguished the low-lying hulls of the destroyers, anchored
in midstream, their lights out--no sign of life.
He nodded slowly.
“I understand,” he said, for the second time. “Come back with me.”
He put his hand on her shoulder affectionately, and she thrilled at the
touch.
She had not asked about Marjorie, but now the thought occurred to her.
He divined it before she spoke.
“The girl is gone,” he said. “Tillizini released her less than half an
hour ago; he also released some pigeons,” he said, with a quiet smile.
He told her what had happened.
“I think it is best,” she said gravely.
There was no resentment in her heart against his treachery, nor did he
feel it necessary to explain his act or express his contrition.
Those two had much in common--as he had always realized. They took
things for granted.
“I suppose,” he said, after he had sat at the table, his head in his
hands, deep in thought, “there is no question of surrender?”
She shook her head.
“They will accept no surrender,” she said. “They have come to
exterminate you. They dare not take you for fear of your disseminating
the plague.”
“They are very wise,” he said; “but yet I think----”
He bit his knuckles thoughtfully.
“Perhaps----” he began again, then shrugged his shoulders.
He walked with a firm step to the door and called in Il Bue. In a few
words he made the position clear.
“Get the rifles out of the cellar,” he said, “and serve out ammunition
to the men. We are going to make a fight for it, but I tell you there
is no chance of escape. The least we can do is to leave behind a
little souvenir of our earnestness and _bona fides_.”
When the man had gone, he turned to Vera.
“Dear,” he said gently, “you must go back.”
“I have come to stay,” she said. “I want no better end than this.”
He looked at her thoughtfully, tenderly. Then he took her face in both
his hands, and kissed her on the lips.
“As you will,” he said; “it will strengthen me as nothing else could
strengthen me, to have you by me.”
He kissed her again, and her head fell on his shoulder, her arms stole
about his neck.
She was happy. Whatever other joys life had held for her, they were as
nothing to this.
* * * * *
An hour before dawn Festini left the woman who had braved so much for
him, and went the rounds. A new sentry had been posted in the place of
Gregorio. Festini was returning and crossing the room which had served
as a common room and office for the band, when the tinkle of a bell
held him. He turned back.
He had had the house connected by telephone, but an hour before the
arrival of Tillizini, though he did not know this, the wires had been
cut. He walked to the instrument and took down the receiver. Was it
possible that by some chance they had overlooked the wire, and that
he could communicate with the agents of the Red Hand in London? The
thought had not occurred to him before, but at the first word which
reached him his lips curled in an ironic smile.
“Is that you, Festini?” said the voice.
“Yes,” replied the count; “my friend Tillizini, I think?”
“It is I,” said the voice calmly. “Have you nothing to say to me?”
Festini bent his head. For a long time he remained silent.
“I have nothing to say,” he said. “You have won and I have lost; that
is too obvious to need any labouring.”
“Nothing else?” asked the voice.
Festini thought he detected a note of sadness.
“Nothing else,” he replied firmly. “What can I say? Except that I
lose with a good heart. After all, I have so frequently laid down my
creed in regard to such trivial matters as life and death that even
now, confronting the supreme crisis of my life, I can find no more
comforting thought than that creed offers.”
He heard Tillizini’s voice break into a little laugh: a low, amused,
yet despairing little laugh.
“How like you, Festini!” he said. “How like you!”
“What else?” asked the count. “You did not expect me to recant or to
offer you terms? You would have despised me as much as I should despise
you if you proffered me a way of escape. I suppose,” he asked, “you are
speaking from some place of security?”
“I am speaking from one of the destroyers,” said the other. “We have
tapped your wire----”
“Which is cut, I presume,” said Festini coolly.
“Which is cut,” repeated the other. “What of Vera?” asked Tillizini
suddenly.
“I would rather not discuss that,” said Festini, a little haughtily.
“She is with you?”
“Yes, she is here,” replied Festini, after a little hesitation. “In
justice to myself, I have tried to persuade her to go back. I can
conduct her outside these lines without any difficulty.”
“And she refuses?”
“Yes, she refuses,” said Festini. “And I think it is better so.”
He stood with his elbow against the wall, his feet crossed; one who
was not acquainted with the circumstances might have thought he was
conducting a very ordinary and commonplace conversation that involved
more than ordinary thought, but which had not more than ordinary
consequences.
There was another long silence, which Festini broke.
“In all your philosophy, Tillizini,” he said, “and I concede you a
vast and interesting knowledge of human affairs, has it ever occurred
to you how wonderful a thing is a woman? Put out of your mind the
passions and the follies of life, and come down to the essentials and
the utilitarian part of existence. Is there anything so devoted, so
self-effacing, so purely noble? I think”--Tillizini heard him laugh--a
bright, happy, joyous laugh--“I think that all the bother and stress
and scheming of my life, all the crime, as you would call it, all
the endeavour and disappointment, was worth this: here is my reward,
probably more tangible and beautiful than the ten millions we ask from
your government--by the way, I suppose they have adopted you now?” he
added mockingly.
“It is worth much,” said Tillizini.
“It is worth all,” said Festini, and his voice vibrated. “Without
this, philosophy is futile, life has been wasted.”
There was another long pause.
“You have nothing else to say?” asked Tillizini.
“Nothing,” said Festini. “Nothing more than I have said. Is not that
enough?” he asked. “What a glutton you are, Tillizini,” he bantered
him. “What do you desire--a tearful repentance? An admission of my
manifold sins and wickednesses? A plea for mercy? King’s evidence?” He
laughed again. “You never expected that, my friend?”
“No, I never expected that,” said Tillizini’s voice. “I don’t know
exactly what I did expect. I think that is all.”
“I will say _au revoir_,” said Festini.
“Farewell,” said the other’s voice suddenly.
There was such a long wait now that Festini thought the other must have
hung up his receiver.
He was on the point of following his example, when Tillizini’s voice
spoke again.
“And _bon voyage_!” it said.
Festini laughed, and the receivers clicked together.
CHAPTER XIX
THE WORKING OF THE ACT
The dawn came up grayly over Essex.
Sir Ralph Morte-Mannery, wrapped in furs, dozing in his car, was
awakened by the arrival of a pannikin of coffee.
A young officer, greatcoated to his ears, held the carriage door open
and smilingly offered it to the other.
“I am afraid it isn’t much, Sir Ralph,” he said, “but it is all we can
give you.”
“Is it time?” asked Sir Ralph.
“Nearly,” said the other.
Sir Ralph sipped the coffee, and, handing the cup to the waiting
orderly, stepped out of the carriage on to the road.
Left and right he saw troops standing under arms--khaki-clad
infantrymen--line upon line of them. Behind, on a rise, the horses of a
field battery were being harnessed to the limbers. In the centre of the
river the grim little destroyers lay anchored, a cable’s length from
one another, and were swinging with the tide.
In the centre of the flat green plain was a house. A long, low-roofed
shed was in close proximity. There was no sign of life save for the
lazy smoke which rose from the one chimney of the house.
Two mounted officers came cantering up to where the knight stood. One
saluted him.
“Good morning, Sir Ralph; your justices are waiting.”
He dismounted, and handing the horse to a waiting soldier, the two men
walked along the road.
They reached the line of soldiers which were nearest to the house. A
long table had been set up in the centre of the road--a table covered
with green baize, which was set about by a heterogeneous collection of
chairs, commandeered from the neighbouring village.
A man in a tall hat and a fur coat was pacing up and down as Sir Ralph
came up. He turned and raised his hat.
“Sir Ralph Morte-Mannery,” he said formally, “I am commissioned by His
Majesty’s Government to hand you a copy of the act which was passed
last night by the House of Commons and which has received the assent in
the early hours of this morning.”
He handed the document to Sir Ralph, who took it with a little bow.
“You will find yourself specified here as the commissioner to execute
the provisions of this act.”
Sir Ralph opened the envelope and took out four closely printed sheets
of paper.
They bore the inscription, “The Preservation of Law Act.”
He read the preamble. It was an act which had been called into
existence by the danger which threatened England. He came to that part
which defined the commissioner’s duties, and mastered it. Then he stood
up by the table, and four men took their places, two on either side.
Sir Ralph removed his hat and faced the gloomy house.
He read from the document in his hand, and his voice was a little
shrill and shaky.
Frank Gallinford, standing a little apart with Tillizini, watched the
extraordinary scene with breathless interest. The sense of the tragedy
of that moment oppressed him.
He heard the knight’s voice quiver as he read the short sentence:
“... Whereas I, Ralph Morte-Mannery, His Majesty’s Commissioner, by
this Act appointed, declare all those persons who at present inhabit
and sojourn in the place known as Falley’s Wharf, in the county of
Essex, are persons without benefit of Law, and whereas I declare them
to be guilty of a crime, which by this Act is specified as deserving of
the punishment of death, now I, by virtue of the power and authority
vested in me, do pass upon them all, jointly and severally, the
sentence which the Law demands, that they shall be shot until they are
dead, and their bodies shall afterwards be burnt....”
His voice broke a little. When he had finished reading they saw his
lips moving as if in prayer.
Then from the house came the first challenge of the Red Hand.
There was a distant “click-clock,” and Sir Ralph pitched forward over
the table--dead.
Festini had seen the ceremony and guessed its import. He was an
excellent marksman....
For twenty-five minutes the fight raged. The infantry, by short rushes
occupying every scrap of cover which the flat plain offered, opened a
vigorous fire upon the shed.
Three minutes after the infantry attack had begun the 73rd Battery of
the Field Artillery came into action. And simultaneously the destroyers
began dropping their tiny shells into the doomed house.
But the Red Hand died hard. Shot after shot came from the building. The
hut was in flames--part of the house itself was shot away, exposing its
bare interior.
Then Frank gripped Tillizini’s arm.
“My God!” he said. “Look!”
On the rooftop two figures had suddenly appeared--a man and a woman.
The man stood calmly regarding the destructive host that was advancing
before him. The woman, Frank saw through his glasses, had her hand upon
his shoulder.
Frank reeled back.
“It’s Vera!” he gasped.
Tillizini nodded.
“So it seems,” he said. “She is a greater woman than I thought.”
That was his only comment.
They stood there--a mark for all--but the presence of the woman brought
the rifles of the advancing soldiers down. Unscathed they stood. They
saw Festini’s hand go up in defiance. Then he suddenly tumbled and
swayed.
The woman sprang to his side and caught him, holding him close to her
breast.
What was plain to be seen by the land force was hidden from the men on
the torpedo boats.
Suddenly--right above her head--a shrapnel shell burst--and the two,
clasped in one another’s arms, sank out of sight as the roof of the
burning building collapsed.
Frank turned to Tillizini. The man’s face was whiter than usual, and
his eyes were wide open, staring.
The Englishman could not speak; he wiped his streaming brow with a
handkerchief, and his hand was trembling.
“England owes you something, Professor Tillizini,” said Frank, aghast,
looking with wonder at the silent figure.
Tillizini made no reply.
When, later in the day, weary and ill-looking, he presented himself at
the premier’s house and received the congratulations which the minister
felt were his due, he was more inclined to appraise the part he had
played.
“The detection of this gang,” said the premier warmly, “and the
destruction of the most dangerous man in Europe are due entirely to
you, Signor Tillizini. You have frustrated him at every turn. It might
almost seem,” he smiled, “that you were inside his mind and knew what
he would do next.”
“That is very likely,” said Tillizini absently. “I knew Festini
well, and his methods extremely well. I know something of his
boyhood--something of his parents--the conditions of his life.
“Old Count Festini had two sons: the elder, for some reason or other,
he hated; the younger he petted and spoiled. Count Festini had always
been a leader in this type of organization. It is said that he had
pursued a vendetta for two hundred years. The old man had put a period
to it by destroying the last of the opposition factors.
“It is not the fault of the man who died to-day,” he said slowly, “that
he was what he was. He was reared and trained to the work--was a ready
and willing tool for the Red Hand, until, by his very genius, he became
their master.”
“What happened to the elder brother?” asked the premier curiously.
“I am the elder brother,” said Tillizini, and he smiled, a little
crookedly.
THE END
_Whether you were keen enough to solve this Crime Club
mystery in its early stages, or whether the author
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CRIME CLUB READERS NEVER TELL
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