The Just Men of Cordova/Chapter 3
An Adventure in Pimlico
In the meantime our constable had reached a small tavern in the vicinity of Regent Street. He entered the bar and, ordering a drink, took a seat in the corner of the spacious saloon. There were two or three people about; there were two or three men drinking at the bar and talking—men in loud suits, who cast furtive glances at every new-corner. He knew them to be commonplace criminals of the first type. They did not engage his attention: he flew higher.
He sat in the corner, apparently absorbed in an evening paper, with his whisky and soda before him scarcely touched, waiting. It was not the first time he had been here, nor would it be the first time he had waited without any result. But he was patient and dogged in the pursuit of his object.
The clock pointed to a quarter after ten, when the swing-doors were pushed open and two men entered. For the greater part of half an hour the two were engaged in a low-voiced consultation. Over his paper Frank could see the face of Sparks. He was the jackal of the Black gang, the man-of-all-trades. To him were deputed the meanest of Black’s commissions, and worthily did he serve his master. The other was known to Frank as Jakobs, a common thief and a pensioner of the benevolent colonel.
The conversation was punctuated either by glances at the clock above the bar or at Sparks’ watch, and at a quarter to eleven the two men rose and went out. Frank followed, leaving his drink almost untouched.
The men turned into Regent Street, walked a little way up, and then hailed a taxi. Another cab was passing. Frank beckoned it. “Follow that yellow cab,” he said to the driver, “and keep a reasonable distance behind, and when it sets down, pass it and drop me farther along the street.”
The man touched his cap. The two cabs moved on. They went in the direction of Victoria, passed the great station on the left, turned down Grosvenor Road on the right, and were soon in the labyrinth of streets that constitute Pimlico. The first cab pulled up at a big gaunt house in a street which had once been fashionable, but which now hovered indescribably between slums and shabby gentility. Frank saw the two men get out, and descended himself a few hundred yards farther along on the opposite side of the street. He had marked the house. There was no difficulty in distinguishing it; a brass plate was attached to the door announcing it to be an employment agency—as, indeed, it was.
His quarry had entered before he strode across towards the house. He crossed the road and took a position from whence he could watch the door. The half-hour after twelve had chimed from a neighbouring church before anything happened. A policeman on his beat had passed Frank with a resentful sidelong glance, and the few pedestrians who were abroad at that hour viewed him with no less suspicion.
The chime of the neighbouring church had hardly died away when a private car came swiftly along the road and pulled up with a jerk in front of the house. A man descended. From where he stood Frank had no difficulty in recognizing Black. That he was expected was evident from the fact that the door was immediately opened to him.
Three minutes later another car came down the street and stopped a few doors short of the house, as though the driver was not quite certain as to which was his destination. The newcomer was a stranger to Frank. In the uncertain light cast by a street lamp he seemed to be fashionably dressed. As he turned to give instructions to his chauffeur, Fellowe caught a glimpse of a spotless white shirt-front beneath the long dark overcoat. He hesitated at the foot of the steps which led to the door, and ascended slowly and fumbled for a moment at the bell. Before he could touch it the door opened. There was a short parley as the new man entered.
Frank, waiting patiently on the other side of the road, saw a light appear suddenly on the first floor.
Did he but know, this gathering was in the nature of a board meeting, a board meeting of a company more heavily financed than some of the most respected houses in the City, having its branches in various parts of the world, its agents, its business system—its very books, if they could be found and the ciphered entries unravelled.
Black sat at one end of the long table and the last arrival at the other. He was a florid young man of twenty-six, with a weak chin and a slight yellow moustache. His face would be familiar to all racing men, for this was the sporting baronet, Sir Isaac Tramber. There was something about Sir Isaac which kept him on the outside fringe of good society, in spite of the fact that he came of a stock which was indelibly associated with England’s story: the baronetcy had been created as far back as the seventeenth century. It was a proud name, and many of his ancestors had borne it proudly. None the less, his name was taboo, his invitations politely refused, and never reciprocated.
There had been some unfathomable scandal associated with his name. Society is very lenient to its children. There are crimes and sins which it readily, or if not readily, at any rate eventually, forgives and condones, but there are some which are unpardonable, unforgivable. Once let a man commit those crimes, or sin those sins, and the doors of Mayfair are closed for ever against him. Around his head was a cloud of minor scandal, but that which brought down the bar of good society was the fact that he had ridden his own horse at one of the Midland meetings. It had started a hot favourite—five to two on.
The circumstances of that race are inscribed in the annals of the Jockey Club. How an infuriated mob broke down the barriers and attempted to reach this amateur jockey was ably visualized by the sporting journalists who witnessed the extraordinary affair. Sir Isaac was brought before the local stewards and the case submitted to the stewards of the Jockey Club. The next issue of the Racing Calendar contained the ominous announcement that Sir Isaac Tramber had been “warned off” Newmarket Heath.
Under this ban he sat for four years, till the withdrawal of the notice. He might again attend race-meetings and own horses, and he did both, but the ban of society, that unwritten “warning off” notice, had not been withdrawn. The doors of every decent house were closed to him. Only one friend he had in the fashionable world, and there were people who said that the Earl of Verlond, that old and crabbed and envenomed man, merely championed his unpromising protégé out of sheer perversity, and there was ample justification for this contention of a man who was known to have the bitterest tongue in Europe.
The descent to hell is proverbially easy, and Sir Isaac Tramber’s descent was facilitated by that streak of decadence which had made itself apparent even in his early youth. As he sat at one end of the board-table, both hands stuffed into his trousers pockets, his head on one side like a perky bird, he proved no mean man of business, as Black had discovered earlier in their acquaintanceship.
“We are all here now, I think,” said Black, looking humorously at his companion. They had left Sparks and his friend in a room below. “I have asked you to come to-night,” he said, “to hear a report of this business. I am happy to tell you that we have made a bigger profit this year than we have ever made in the course of our existence.”
He went on to give details of the work for which he had been responsible, and he did so with the air and in the manner of one who was addressing a crowded board-room.
“People would say,” said the colonel oracularly, “that the business of outside broker is inconsistent with my acknowledged position in the world of finance; therefore I deem it expedient to dissociate myself from our little firm. But the outside broker is a useful person—especially the outside broker who has a hundred thousand clients. There are stocks of mine which he can recommend with every evidence of disinterestedness, and just now I am particularly desirous that these stocks should be recommended.”
“Do we lose anything by Fanks’ death?” asked the baronet carelessly. “Hard luck on him, wasn’t it? But he was awfully fat.”
The colonel regarded the questioner with a calm stare. “Do not let us refer to Fanks,” he said evenly. “The death of Fanks has very much upset me—I do not wish to speak about it.”
The baronet nodded. “I never trusted him, poor chap,” he said, “any more than I trusted the other chap who made such an awful scene here a year ago—February, wasn’t it?”
“Yes’ said the colonel briefly.
“It’s lucky for us he died too.” said the tactless aristocrat, “because—”
“We’ll get on with the business.” Colonel Black almost snarled the words. But the baronet had something to say. He was troubled about his own security. It was when Black showed some sign of ending the business that Sir Isaac leant forward impatiently.
“There is one thing we haven’t discussed, Black,” he said.
Black knew what the thing was, and had carefully avoided mention of the subject. “What is it?” he asked innocently.
“These fellows who are threatening us, or rather threatening you; they haven’t any idea who it is who is running the show, have they?” he asked, with some apprehension.
Black shook his head smilingly. “I think not,” he said. “You are speaking, of course, of the Four Just Men.”
Sir Isaac gave a short nod. “Yes,” Black went on, with an assumption of indifference, “I have had an anonymous letter from these gentlemen. As a matter of fact, my dear Sir Isaac, I haven’t the slightest doubt that the whole thing is a bluff.”
“What do you mean by a bluff?” demanded the other.
Black shrugged his shoulders. “I mean that there is no such organization as the Four Just Men. They are a myth. They have no existence. It is too melodramatic for words. Imagine four people gathered together to correct the laws of England. It savours more of the sensational novel than of real life.” He laughed with apparent ease. “These things,” he said, wagging his finger jocosely at the perturbed baronet, “do not happen in Pimlico. No, I suspect that our constable, the man I spoke to you about, is at the bottom of it. He is probably the whole Four of these desperate conspirators.” He laughed again.
Sir Isaac fingered his moustache nervously. “It’s all rot to say they don’t exist; we know what they did six years ago, and I don’t like this other man a bit,” he grumbled.
“Don’t like which other man?”
“This interfering policeman,” he replied irritably. “Can’t he be squared?”
“The constable?”
“Yes; you can square constables, I suppose, if you can square sergeants.” Sir Isaac Tramber had the gift of heavy sarcasm.
Black stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Curiously enough,” he said, “I have never thought of that. I think we can try.” He glanced at his watch. “Now I’ll ask you just to clear out,” he said. “I have an appointment at half-past one.”
Sir Isaac smiled slowly. “Rather a curious hour for an appointment,” he said.
“Ours is a curious business,” replied Colonel Black.
They rose, and Sir Isaac turned to Black. “What is the appointment?” he asked.
Black smiled mysteriously. “It is rather a peculiar case,” he began.
He stopped suddenly. There were hurried footsteps on the stairs without. A second later the door was flung open and Sparks burst into the room. “Guv’nor,” he gasped, “they’re watching the house.”
“Who is watching?”
“There’s a busy on the other side of the road,” said the man, speaking graphically. “I spotted him, and the moment he saw I noticed him he moved off. He’s back again now. Me and Willie have been watching him.”
The two followed the agitated Sparks downstairs, where from a lower window they might watch, unobserved, the man who dared spy on their actions.
“If this is the police,” fumed Black, “that dog Gurden has failed me. He told me Scotland Yard were taking no action whatever.”
Frank, from his place of observation, was well aware that he had caused some consternation. He had seen Sparks turn back hurriedly with Jakobs and re-enter the house. He observed the light go out suddenly on the first floor, and now he had a pretty shrewd idea that they were watching him through the glass panel of the doorway.
There was no more he could learn. So far his business had been a failure. It was no secret to him that Sir Isaac Tramber was an associate of Black’s, or that Jakobs and estimable Sparks were also partners in this concern. He did not know what he hoped to find, or what he had hoped to accomplish.
He was turning away in the direction of Victoria when his attention was riveted on the figure of a young man which was coming slowly along on the opposite sidewalk, glancing from time to time at the numbers which were inscribed on the fanlights of the doors. He watched him curiously, then in a flash he realized his objective as he stopped in front of No. 63.
In half a dozen steps he had crossed the road towards him. The boy—he was little more—turned round, a little frightened at the sudden appearance. Frank Fellowe walked up to him and recognized him. “You need not be scared,” he said, “I am a police officer. Are you going into that house?”
The young man looked at him for a moment and made no reply. Then, in a voice that shook, he said “Yes.”
“Are you going there to give Colonel Black certain information about your employer’s business?” The young man seemed hypnotized by fear. He nodded. “Is your employer aware of the fact?”
Slowly he shook his head. “Did he send you?” he asked suddenly, and Frank observed a note of terror in his voice.
“No,” he smiled, wondering internally who the “he” was. “I am here quite on my own, and my object is to warn you against trusting Colonel Black.”
He jerked up his head, and Frank saw the flush that came to his face. “You are Constable Fellowe,” he said suddenly.
To say that Frank was a little staggered is to express the position mildly. “Yes,” he repeated, “I am Constable Fellowe.”
Whilst he was talking the door of the house had opened. From the position in which he stood Frank could not see this. Black emerged stealthily and came down the steps towards him.
The agent had no other desire than to discover the identity of the man who was shadowing him. He was near enough to hear what the young man said.
“Fellowe,” he boomed, and came down the rest of the steps at a run. “So it’s you, is it?” he snarled. “It’s you interfering with my business again.”
“Something like that,” said Frank coolly.
He turned to the young man again.
“I tell you,” he said in a tone of authority, “that if you go into this house, or have anything whatever to do with this man, you will regret it to the last day of your life.”
“You shall pay for this!” fumed Black. “I’ll have your coat from your back, constable. I’ll give you in charge. I’ll—I’ll—”
“You have an excellent opportunity,” said Frank. His quick eye had detected the figure of a constable on the other side of the road, walking slowly towards them. “There’s a policeman over there; call him now and give me in charge. There is no reason why you shouldn’t—no reason why you should want to avoid publicity of the act.”
“Oh, no, no!” It was the youth who spoke. “Colonel Black, I must come another time.” He turned furiously on Frank. “As to you—” he began, gaining courage from Black’s presence.
“As to you,” retorted Frank, “avoid bad company!”
He hesitated, then turned and walked quickly away, leaving the two men alone on the pavement.
The three watchers in the hall eyed the scene curiously, and two of them at least anticipated instructions from Black which would not be followed by pleasant results for Frank.
With an effort, however, Black controlled his temper. He, too, had seen the shadow on the other side of the road.
“Look here, Constable Fellowe,” he said, with forced geniality, “I know you’re wrong, and you think you’re right. Just come inside and let’s argue this matter out.”
He waited, his nimble mind evolving a plan for dealing with this dangerous enemy. He did not imagine that Frank would accept the invitation, and he was genuinely astounded when, without another word, the constable turned and slowly ascended the steps to the door.