Читать книгу The Kahm Syndicate - Aidan de Brune - Страница 4

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THADDEUS KEENE was well known in Melbourne; Oliver Manx had seen to that detail. Keene was a great traveller, and had no relations, few friends, and a host of acquaintances. He travelled widely. Acquaintances are rarely inquisitive. They ask questions when met, some of their questions bordering on the inquisitive; but with absence comes forgetfulness on their part.

Certainly it was strange that with Keene's re-appearance in Melbourne social life, Oliver Manx made one of his frequent absences from Sydney.

Oliver Manx had found Thaddeus Keene useful. Yet he was only one of quite a number of unattached Australians who roamed their country, turning up at infrequent intervals in the cities and towns they call "home." None of them claimed to have relations, friends, or intimates. They held only one likeness. Whenever one of them appeared in public in any city, the others, including Oliver Manx, were absent from their home towns, on private and unobtrusive business.

A final glance about the small office and Oliver Manx left the room, closing the door behind him. The spring lock held the door fast against intrusion, for in spite of the fact that the building was invaded by a host of cleaners each evening, there was only one key to that lock. Turning towards the head of the stairs Oliver Manx passed leisurely through the building. On the stairs and landing he passed many officials of the Crown Law Department, and visitors. None of them recognised him, although many were familiar with the appearance of the slight, round-shouldered man who occupied the room at the top of the house.

In the vestibule of the building, once the reception hall of one of Sydney's first houses, Oliver passed the hall-porter, a resplendent individual with the air of an English duke. The official stared for a moment, then turned away. His manner showed that he took the man passing him to be some casual citizen who had dared to invade the sacred precincts of the department. Certainly, he puzzled, for he did not remember so obviously an important person entering the building.

On the street pavement, Oliver turned towards Queen's Square. In King-street he nearly collided with a hurrying newsboy, shouting unintelligibly in the jargon of the street. For a moment the boy halted:

"Paper, sir?"—and Oliver caught sight of the yellow and black bill draping the small figure. The big, black type asked a question:

WHAT IS THE KAHM SYNDICATE?

Oliver dropped coins into a grubby hand and took the loosely folded newspaper. He sighed; so these people who intended to take the law into their own hands could not keep their intentions secret? Moving close to one of the shop windows, to be out of the hurrying throng, he opened the newspaper. As he had guessed, the statement he had received from the police that morning was printed in full.

Who are the people comprising the Kahm Syndicate?

asked the Star in shrieking streamers.

What purpose have they? Are they defying the police, as well as the gangsters who infest our city?

These, and other pertinent questions were prominent in stagger-sub-heads. Even the almost stereotyped editorial on the sins and virtues of politicians had been "lifted" into an obscurity for the issue. In place of the usual political propaganda—carefully ignored by the average reader—a member of the editorial staff wrote learnedly on the "Kahm Syndicate;" at one time comparing it to a heavenly visitant undertaking the work of cleaning up a grossly immoral and vicious city, in other phrases declaring it to be another phase of criminal intrigue to which the country had become accustomed. All this in accordance with the policy of Sydney's one evening newspaper to balance carefully on the top rail of the fence for the moment.

Oliver folded the newspaper and tucked it under his arm. For a moment he was thoughtful, a little frown-pucker showing between his eyes. If the newspapers were going to boost the Kahm Syndicate his task would be doubly difficult. He strolled on to Pitt-street.

Alford House is one of the most important buildings in the city of Sydney. Very new, and with elaborate appointments, very correct porters and discreet lift-attendants, it had recently been opened by a clever-advertising insurance company. In the vestibule Oliver paused a moment, scanning the long index of tenants. The Kahm Syndicate occupied a suite of five offices on the third floor. He strolled on to the lift and entered, giving the number of the floor he required in a cool, precise voice.

Almost opposite the lift-stop were large, double, full-glass doors, inscribed in gold with the words "The Kahm Syndicate." The lettering carried no indication of the business being carried on in the offices. Beyond the doors stood a solid, expensive-looking counter, and beyond the counter, in dignified employment, more than a dozen clerks. As Oliver approached the doors they swung open before him, automatically. He passed on to the counter.

"Mr. Kahm in?" asked Oliver Manx.

"Mr—who?" The girl who had come to the opposite side of the counter raised plucked eyebrows. "There is no Mr. Kahm."

"Sorry." The tall, dignified, very straight form bent slightly. "I should have said, your manager."

"Your name, please."

Oliver Manx produced the heavy silver card-case and took out one of the slips of pasteboard. The girl accepted the card gravely and passed it to a diminutive page-boy, who suddenly materialised at her side. The boy went to a door, knocked, listened a moment, then entered the room. He returned to sight quickly and, lifting a flap in the counter, invited Oliver Manx to enter. Lowering the flap, the boy entered a room, motioning the investigator to follow him.

Purposely, Oliver slackened his pace as he set foot in the handsomely furnished office, staring keenly at the chubby-faced, bald-headed man seated behind the big desk. He was puzzled. From the moment he had entered Alford House he had been in a wilderness of surmises. In these offices he had seen no indications of the business carried on by the Syndicate—and now he was called upon to state his business with the firm.

And he had none. For a full half-minute he stood in the doorway, scanning the man behind the desk, the page-boy at his elbow waiting to close the door on him. The man behind the desk was waiting, a smile of expectancy on his full, over-red lips.

Secretly Oliver smiled. Here was a game he could play perhaps better than the man before him.

"Mr. Thaddeus Keene?" The man behind the desk spoke at length.

"Of Melbourne," Oliver murmured. "I have the pleasure—"

"Archibald—Maurice Archibald." The stout man beamed. "Will you not sit down?" He indicated, with a jerky motion of his right hand, still holding a heavy golden fountain-pen, the chair before the desk. Oliver bowed, and made rather a ceremony of seating himself. He was waiting for the lead that did not appear likely to come.

"I was expecting to see a—a Mr. Kahm," he ventured.

"There is no Mr. Kahm." Archibald spoke slowly. "That is the name of the syndicate."

"Ah—the syndicate." Oliver nodded understandingly. "I used to know a Mr.—er—Kahm in Melbourne. I thought—"

"Then this is a social call." The stout man smiled brightly. "I am most pleased—and disappointed. Pleased that there is not a Mr. Kahm—in Sydney and—"

"Disappointed that you are not interviewing a business customer," interjected Oliver. "Perhaps one day, when I have knowledge of your business—"

"So? I forgot!" Again the man turned a beaming face for a moment on Oliver, then bent to one of the desk drawers. "This is a social call."

Almost magically a silver humidor appeared on the desk and opened. Archibald pressed some spring, and one of the compartments came up, holding inviting-looking cigars.

"A social call! Hardly that." Oliver carefully selected a cigar. "I am interested in Melbourne newspapers."

"Ah, a Sydney representative of one of the big dailies in our sister city?"

"If I may claim that." The investigator drew forward the stand-lighter. "Have you seen this afternoon's newspaper, Mr. Archibald?"

Instead of answering the question, Archibald pressed a bell-stud on the desk.

"Don't trouble," said Oliver, unfolding the newspaper he had carried into the office. He spread the sheet on the desk facing Archibald.

"Ah! The Kahm Syndicate!" The stout man read the big display headings carefully. "So that is the reason for your call, Mr Keene?"

"I am interested."

"Professionally?"

"Shall we say, a mere matter of curiosity?"

"Very bad! Very bad! Curiosity—"

"—is human." Oliver Keene smiled. "Darlinghurst is an interesting district."

"M-m-m-m!" The play of air between the man's lips was long drawn. "So you connect my syndicate with this—er—"

"With this—er—" repeated Oliver.

"I really don't see the connection." A hint of sharpness underlay Archibald's suavity. "The coincidence of names, yes! By the way—how did you discover—us?"

"Curiosity, my dear Mr. Archibald." The special agent's voice was very bland. "I happened to look in the telephone book after—er—reading the—er—newspaper—and—" he paused. "May I inquire your business?"

"We are Systematists, Mr. Keene."

"Systematists?"

"We systemise—everything."

"Even—Darlinghurst?" Oliver smiled quietly. "I thought that had been already accomplished."

The man on the opposite side of the desk lifted his light eyebrows.

"By the gentlemen of the so-called underworld," explained Oliver.

"Is that sufficient?" Almost a defiant note sounded in Archibald's smooth voice.

"I believe the police authorities think different."

"And you agree with them? Are you—or—connected with the police, may I ask, Mr. Thaddeus Keene?"

"The police do not require assistance from private citizens," the special agent countered. "If they asked my co-operation—"

"Which, undoubtedly, they will do?"

"For what purpose?" queried Oliver, apparently much surprised. "Beside their trained experts—" He shrugged. "Really, Mr. Archibald. I came here as a matter, of curiosity—to discover if my old friend, Charlie Kahm—"

"Two and four!" The stout man leaned forward, pointing first at himself and then at Oliver.

"Two and four? I do not understand."

"K-1, A-2, H-3; M-4," spelt the man; "Shall we agree that I am the second letter—then you must be the fourth. Understand?"

"'A' for Archibald; 'M' for—"

For a moment the eyes of the two men met and held; then Archibald started to laugh, wiping, his eyes with a very immaculate handkerchief drawn from his cuff. He rose from his chair indicating that the interview was at an end.

For a moment Oliver was nonplussed. Had the man recognised him? Very few people knew him in any manner. Very few people connected the Oliver Manx of his daily life, with the Crown Law official who spent so many hours of his life in the top room of the Macquarie-street building. Two men only could connect Thaddeus Keene with Oliver Manx—and neither of those men would utter one word of betrayal.

In some way this man, conventional in appearance and manner, had penetrated his disguise. Oliver sighed. He had rather fancied the identity of Thaddeus Keene. He had spent years perfecting the character, giving it a history and surroundings that could not be challenged. Thaddeus Keene had served well, particularly in dealing with rogues in the higher walks of life. Now Thaddeus Keene had to disappear. He had to die—to pass out of this world convincingly. That would be a trouble, requiring careful preparation and work. There must be no link left to connect him with any other manifestation emanating from the little office in the attics of the Crown Law Department.

"Going, Mr Keene?" Archibald came round his desk, hand outstretched. "So sorry there is no Mr.—er—Kahm to welcome his old friend, Thaddeus Keene, to these offices. If if you should chance upon him, I trust you will convey to him my sincere regrets. You will, I hope tell him I did my best to substitute for him—er—efficiently?"

"You shall have the best testimonial I can give, Mr.—er—Archibald." Oliver Manx moved to the door. "Sorry to have troubled you unnecessarily. Perhaps at our next interview—"

"A business one, Mr. Thaddeus Keene?" The man spoke ironically. "Still, I'll be pleased to see you any time." He hesitated. "If by any, chance—"

"Yes?" Oliver turned, at the door, suddenly.

Archibald, in turn, hesitated. "I was only going to suggest that police work is sometimes rather difficult for—er—amateurs."

Before he could think of a satisfying, retort, the door had opened, and Oliver Manx found himself in the outer office, the door, closing behind him. For a moment he paused, staring, about the big, well-appointed room, at the clerks busy at their desks.

What business were these people engaged upon? What, exactly, was the business of the Kahm Syndicate? The Kahm Syndicate—Systematists—Systematists! To systemise Darlinghurst—the crook gangs who had usurped authority in the district—to clean up the underworld that had grown almost all-powerful during the past few years?

He shrugged, moving towards the big glass doors. There was still time. Archibald had shown his hand almost plainly. He had denied nothing—and therein had shown his undoubted cleverness. Yet—

A word from him and this place would he raided by the police. But, what would they find? Nothing—he was sure of that. There would be a quantity of books—showing a properly conducted business, operating in a perfectly legitimate manner. The Kahm Syndicate would reveal its membership, men of undoubted standing and probity. There would be apologies for them; troublesome questions for him and the police to answer; claims to investigate; uncomfortable interviews with the Minister—quite an amount of work and worry—And Archibald would be everywhere, with his infernal smile and suave speeches—

Very leisurely, Oliver Manx, still in the person of Thaddeus Keene, of Melbourne, left the offices and descended in the lift to the street level. Full of thought, he strode out of the building. On the threshold he paused, feeling for his cigarette case. Something splashed on the wall of the building, close to his head. A soft, sinister "plop" sounded through the din of traffic. Again came the soft "plop"—and Thaddeus Keene fell heavily to the pavement.

"Here! What's up?" Official blue thrust through the fast-gathering crowd and bent over the prone man. "What's happened to him?"

"Wounded. Someone shot me." Oliver Manx struggled to a sitting position, secretly scooping up one of the splatters of lead and nickel on the ground almost under where he had lain.

"Wounded? Where?"

The constable knelt beside Oliver, trying to force away the hand the secret agent pressed to his side.

"Quick! You fool! A taxi! Get me into it without loss of time!" Then in a whisper that only the patrolman heard. "Police business."

For a moment the constable hesitated, his mouth opening as if he were about to ask a question, Oliver struggled to his feet.

"Quick!" The secret agent had his hand on the constable's shoulder, his mouth but an inch from the man's ear.

"What's the matter, Joe? What's up with him?" Another constable materialised; at the edge of the crowd, pressing a way through.

"Clear those rubber-necks away, Tom." The first constable was now recovered from his surprise; visions of promotion dancing before his eyes. He straightened. "Here, give him room to move, you! Pass on there! Can't have the street littered this way! Pass on!"

"Can I be of assistance?" A slender, dark man paused at the constable's side. "I am a doctor."

"Don't think it's serious, sir. Just a fall. I'll get him to the hospital as soon as possible."

A taxi had drawn to the curb. Pushing through the curious onlookers, the constable supported Oliver to the door and wrenched it open. Pretending excessive weakness, the secret agent allowed the two constables to help him into the vehicle. The constable jumped in and closed the door.

"Feeling bad, sir?" The man spoke as the taxi turned into Martin Place. "Won't be many minutes before we get there."

Oliver Manx had twisted on the seat, looking out of the little rear window. So far as he could see there was no-one following them. He turned to face the police officer.

"Missed me by a hair's breadth, constable." The secret agent smiled. "Damned bad shots! Still, don't forget, I'm seriously wounded. You'll assist me into the hospital—and I've got to look a real serious case. Insist that I'm taken at once to the operating room—and then leave the surgeon to me. I'll handle him. Your job is to get on the telephone, to the Assistant Commissioner, Mr. Ramsay! Don't forget. You're to speak to him only. Report that Mr. Thaddeus Keene was shot and seriously wounded in Pitt-street."

"But, sir—"

"There's no 'but' about it. You do as I say, or you'll lose your chance of that stripe. Don't say on the telephone a word more than I've told you. The Assistant Commissioner will understand. Then you'll wait at the hospital until he comes. Tell him I want a watch placed on Alford House—the offices of the Kahm Syndicate, and particularly on Maurice Archibald, the manager. He's to be shadowed everywhere. Get that? Good! He'll want the telephone then. Stand by him and when he's finished bring him to me, wherever I am. I shan't leave the hospital until I've seen him."

The taxi swung through the narrow gateway into the Sydney Hospital drive-way, and pulled up before the accident ward door. Feigning intense weakness, Oliver allowed himself to be lifted from the taxi and carried into the building. In the casualty ward he recovered quickly, putting aside the intern who hovered about him.

"Just one thing more." Oliver, Manx included the two men in his speech. There will be inquiries—"No, don't worry me, I'm not injured. Listen to what I say. There'll be inquiries. You will report that Mr. Thaddeus Keene, of Melbourne, was shot and seriously wounded before Alford House, in Pitt-street, this afternoon. The assailant is unknown. Mr. Keene had just come from the Kahm Syndicate offices, where he had been on important business. Get that, both of you? I want the newspapers to have that at once. If you've got any questions, keep them for Assistant Commissioner Ramsay, He may answer them."

Oliver Manx paused and looked at the two men with him. The constable showed perplexity on his face, but nodded. He recognised that here was something he could not understand—but the name of the Assistant Commissioner satisfied him. The intern looked grave.

"I don't know that we can support such an imposture, even if I—"

"Sorry, doctor." Oliver Manx smiled frankly. "You'll find that Mr. Ramsay will take all responsibility from your shoulders. Now, please, will you take me to a private room and detail a very discreet nurse as my attendant. She's not going to have a very busy time, for I expect to be out of here soon after dark. By the way, doctor, you know my name; may I know yours?"

"I am Ralph Murray," the young man answered slowly. "I am afraid, Mr. Keene, you're running foul of a lot of regulations."

"Sorry." Oliver Manx held out his hand. "This is an emergency that has to he met by complete disregard of all rules and regulations. You will find that you have the police and the Crown Law office behind you, so—"

The telephone bell interrupted shrilly. As Dr. Murray turned to answer it, the secret agent caught him by the arm. "That call is about me," he stated emphatically. "You know what to answer. Don't hesitate, man. A lot you don't understand depends on you."

For a moment the intern hesitated, then turned to the instrument. He listened for some seconds, then covered the mouthpiece with his hand and faced Oliver Manx.

"A Mr. Kahm wishes to know how his friend, Mr. Thaddeus Keene, of Melbourne, is progressing. He also wants to know if he can come and see him?" Oliver nodded, then shook his head in answer to the second question.

"I'm too dangerously wounded to be seen by anyone," he stated. "I'll see him—sure; but at my own time—and in my own manner."