Читать книгу When the Gangs Came to London - Edgar Wallace - Страница 5

Table of Contents

Terry had arranged to go that night with Jiggs to see a musical comedy, and he was just leaving the house when the urgent call came through. Fortunately Jiggs, who was collecting him, drove up at that moment, and the two men went straight to Berkeley Square.

There was already a crowd outside the house. Somehow the news had got around. Terry pushed his way to the steps and was instantly admitted.

The two plain-clothes officers who had been on duty outside the house were in the passage, and their report was a simple one. Nobody had entered or left within half an hour of the shooting.

Terry went in and saw the body. The old man had been shot at close quarters by a heavy-calibre revolver, which lay on the floor within a few feet of the desk. It had not been moved.

He sent for a pair of sugar-tongs and, after marking the position of the revolver with a piece of chalk, he lifted the weapon on to a small table and turned on a powerful reading-lamp. It was a heavy, rather old-fashioned Colt revolver. As far as he could see, there were still four unused cartridges. What was more important, there were distinct fingerprints on the shiny steel plate between the butt and the chambers.

There was something more than this--a set of fingerprints on a sheet of foolscap paper. They were visible even before they were dusted. There was a third set on the polished mahogany edge of the desk, as though somebody had been resting their fingers on it.

Terry went into the girl's room and interviewed her. She was as pale as death, but very calm, and told him all she knew.

'Has Tanner been told?'

She nodded.

'Yes, he came down and saw...poor Mr. Decadon, and then went up to his room again. He said nothing had to be touched, but by this time of course the police were in the house. Mr. Tanner didn't know that they'd been outside watching.'

He sent one of the servants for him. Ed Tanner came down, a very grave man. He went without hesitation into the library.

'It's dreadful...simply shocking,' he said. 'I can't believe it.'

'Have you seen this revolver before?' Terry pointed to the gun on the table. To his amazement, Tanner nodded.

'Yes,' he said quietly, 'that's my revolver. I'm pretty certain of it. I didn't touch it when I came into the room, but I could almost swear to it. A month ago a suitcase of mine was stolen at the railway station, and it contained this revolver. I notified the police of my loss and gave them the number of the missing weapon.'

Terry remembered the incident because the theft of firearms came within his department, and he had a distinct recollection of the loss being reported.

'You haven't seen the pistol since?'

'No, sir.'

'Mr. Tanner,' said Terry quietly, 'on that revolver and on the desk there are certain fingerprints. In a few moments the fingerprint department will be here with their apparatus. Have you any objections to giving the police a set of your fingerprints in order that they may be compared with those found on the revolver?'

Eddie Tanner shook his head with a smile.

'I haven't the least objection. Inspector,' he said.

Almost as he said the words the fingerprint men came in, carrying their mystery box and Terry, taking the sergeant in charge aside, explained what he wanted. In a few minutes Tanner's fingerprints were on a plain sheet of paper, and the sergeant set to work with his camera men making the record of the other prints which had been found. The easiest to do were those on the sheet of foolscap. A dusting with powder brought them out clearly. The sergeant examined them, and Terry saw a look of wonder in his face.

'Why, these are the same as that gentleman's.'

'What?' said Terry. He took up the revolver, made a dusting, and again examined it. 'These also.'

Terry looked at the imperturbable Mr. Tanner, He was smiling slightly.

'I was in this room at seven o'clock, but I didn't touch the paper or the desk or any article in the room,' he said. 'I hope you'll realise, Mr. Weston'-- he turned to Terry--'that the fact that I was here at seven o'clock could be offered as a very simple explanation of those fingerprints--apart, of course, from those on the revolver. But I couldn't possibly have made them, because I was wearing gloves. In fact, I intended going out, and changed my mind after interviewing my uncle.'

'What was the interview about?' asked Terry.

There was a pause. 'It concerned his will. He called me down to tell me that he intended making a will for the first time in his life.'

'Did he tell you how he was disposing of his property?'

Tanner shook his head. 'No.'

Terry went out in search of the girl, and learned to his surprise that the will had been made and witnessed. She had not seen its contents, and knew nothing about it except that it was a document which she had witnessed, and in which she had been left a thousand pounds.

'I told him the fact I had witnessed the will invalidated it, as I was a beneficiary,' she said.

'Have you any idea where he put it?'

She could answer this readily. 'In the top left-hand drawer of his desk.'

Terry went back to the chamber of death. The divisional surgeon had arrived and was examining the body. 'Do you know how your uncle was leaving his money in the will?'

'No, I don't,' repeated Tanner. 'He told me nothing.'

Terry went round the desk and pulled open the top left-hand drawer. It was empty! He went back to Tanner. 'You realise how serious this is, Mr. Tanner? If what you say is true, and your uncle never made a will, you, as his only relative, are the sole legatee. If, on the other hand, your uncle made a will, as he undoubtedly did, it is quite possible that you were disinherited, and the destruction of the will, as well as the killing of your uncle, are circumstances which suggest a very important motive.'

Tanner nodded. 'Does that mean...'

'It merely means that I shall ask you to go with an officer to Scotland Yard, and to wait there until I come. It doesn't mean you're under arrest.'

Tanner thought for a moment. 'Can I see my attorney?'

Terry shook his head. 'That is not customary in this country. When any definite charge is made you may have a lawyer, but it's by no means certain that any charge will be made. The circumstances are suspicious. You agree that the revolver is yours, and the sergeant says that the finger-prints resemble yours; though of course that will be subject to a more careful scrutiny, and I am afraid there is no other course than that which I am now taking.'

'That I understand,' said Tanner, and went off with one of the officers.

Jiggs Allerman had been a silent witness to the proceedings, so silent that Terry had forgotten his presence. Now he went across to where the American was standing watching the photographing of the body.

'Is this a gang killing or just plain interested murder? I can't decide.'

Jiggs shook his head. 'The only thing that strikes me as odd are those finger-prints on the foolscap paper. Do you notice how coarse they are?'

The finger-print sergeant looked round. 'That struck me too, Mr. Weston. The lines are curiously blurred; you'd think the impressions had been purposely made, and that whoever put them there laid his hand down deliberately, intending to make them.'

'That's just what I was going to say,' said Jiggs. 'And the gun on the floor--whoever heard of a gangster leaving his gun behind? He'd as soon think of leaving his visiting-card.'

Terry's own sergeant had come on the scene, and to him he delegated the task of making a careful search of the house.

'I particularly want Tanner's room gone through with a fine tooth-comb,' he said. 'Look for cartridges or any evidence that may connect him with the crime. I'm particularly anxious to find a will made by Decadon this evening, so you'll make a search of fireplaces or any other place where such a will might have been destroyed.'

After the body had been removed and the grosser traces of the crime had been obliterated he called in Leslie. She was feeling the reaction: her face was white, her lips were inclined to tremble.

'You go home, young lady. I'll send an officer with you--and God knows I envy him!--and be here tomorrow morning at your usual hour. There'll be a whole lot of questions asked you, but you'll have to endure that.'

'Poor Mr. Decadon!' Her voice quivered.

'I know, I know,' he said soothingly, and dared put his arm about her shoulder.

She did not resent this, and his familiarity gave him the one happy moment of his day.

'You've got to forget all about it tonight; and tomorrow we'll look facts more squarely in the face. The only thing I want to know is, did you hear Tanner talking in the library, and at what time?'

She could place this exactly, and it corresponded with the story Tanner had told.

'And you heard voices just before the shooting?'

'Mr. Decadon's,' she said, 'not the other's.'

'You heard the click as the key was turned, both on the library door and on your own?'

She nodded.

'The first click was on your own door?' he went on. 'That is to say, the corridor door. The last click was the door into the library. So we may suppose that somebody walked along the corridor, locked your door first, went into the library, and then, either known or unknown to Mr. Decadon, locked the communicating door between library and office?'

She nodded again. 'I suppose so,' she said wearily.

He took her by the arm.

'That's enough for tonight,' he said. 'You go home, go to bed and dream of anybody you like, preferably me.'

She tried to smile, but it was a miserable failure. When she had gone: 'What do you make of that, Jiggs?'

'Very much what you make of it, old pal,' said Jiggs. 'The murderer came from the back of the house...'

'It might have been Tanner,' suggested Terry, and Jiggs nodded.

'Sure. It might also have been one of the servants. Let's take a look at these premises.'

They went along the corridor to the far end. The elevator was here on the left. On the right was a flight of stairs leading down to the kitchen. Under the stairs was a large locker, containing overcoats, waterproofs, umbrellas and rubber over-shoes. Jiggs opened the door of the elevator, switched on the light, and the two men got in. Closing the door, he pressed the button and the lift shot up to the top floor, where it stopped.

Apparently there were no intermediate stations, and no other floor was served by this conveyance.

They got out on a small landing. On the left was a half-glass door marked 'Fire.' Terry tried this and it opened readily. As far as he could see, a narrow flight of iron stairs zig-zagged to a small courtyard. Terry came in, closed the door and went on to Tanner's apartment, which was being searched by the sergeant and an assistant.

'Nothing here that I can find, sir,' reported the officer, 'except these, and I can't make them out.'

He pointed to a chair on which were placed a pair of muddy and broken shoes. They were the most dilapidated examples of footwear that Terry remembered seeing.

'No, they weren't on the chair when I found them: they were under it. I put them up to examine them more closely.'

They were in Tanner's bedroom, and the sergeant drew attention to the fact that a small secretaire was open and that a number of papers were on the floor. Several pigeon-holes must have been emptied in some haste.

'It looks as if the room has been carefully searched, or else that Tanner has been in a hurry to find something.'

Terry looked at the shoes again and shook his head.

'Did you find any burnt paper in the grate?'

'No, sir,' said the sergeant. 'No smell of burnt paper either.'

'Listen, Terry,' said Jiggs suddenly. 'You've had a couple of coppers outside since when?'

'Since about half-past ten this morning.'

'Any at the back of the premises?'

'One,' said Terry.

'It's easier to get past one than two,' said Jiggs. 'Let's go down the fire escape and see if anybody could have got in that way. You notice all the windows are open in this room? It's a bit chilly, too.'

Terry had noticed that fact.

'I don't think the idea of the fire-escape is a bad one,' he said, and the two men went out to investigate.

Terry left his companion outside the elevator door while he went down to borrow a torch from one of the policemen. When he came back the fire-escape door was open and Jiggs had disappeared. He flashed his lamp down and saw the American on the second landing below. 'That's better than matches,' he said. 'Look at this, Terry.'

Terry ran down the stairs to where his companion was standing. Jiggs had something in his hand--a rubber overshoe.

In the light of the torch Terry made a quick examination. The shoe was an old one, and subsequently proved to be one of the unfortunate Decadon's.

'What's it doing here?' asked Jiggs.

They went down the next two flights, but found nothing. At the bottom the stairs turned abruptly into the courtyard. Jiggs was walking ahead, Terry behind with a light showing him the way.

'There's a door in that wall. Where does it lead to-a mews?' asked Jiggs. 'That's what you call it...'

Suddenly he stopped.. 'For God's sake!' he said softly. 'Look at that!'

Almost at their feet was a huddled heap. It was a man, ill-clad, his trousers almost in rags. On one foot was a rubber overshoe, on the other a slipper. His hat had fallen some distance from him.

Terry moved the light; he saw the back of the head and the crimson pool that lay beyond.

'Here's our second dead man,' said Terry. 'Who is he?'

Jiggs leaped over the body and reached for the lamp. His examination was a careful one. 'If he isn't a tramp he looks like one. Shot at close range through the back of the head. A small-calibre pistol...dead half an hour. Can you beat that?'

Terry found a door which opened into the kitchen and sent one of the horrified servants in search of the police surgeon, whom he had left writing his report at Leslie's desk. While he awaited his coming he scrutinised the dead man's feet.

He wore soft leather slippers, which were a little too small for him, and over these had evidently drawn the overshoes.

A detective came running out, and Terry sent him back to bring the fingerprint outfit. He then began a careful search of the dead man's clothes. In the left-hand pocket of the shabby overcoat he found a small metal box, rather like a child's money-box. It was black-japanned and fastened with a small lock. Terry tried to open it, but failed. 'It wouldn't have been much use as an indicator of flnger-prints,' he said. 'It's been in his pocket. Did you find anything else, Jiggs?'

Allerman had taken up the search where Terry left off. The inspector heard the jingle of coins, and Jiggs held out his hand.

'That's an unusual phenomenon in England,' he said, and Terry gasped.

There were about ten or twelve English sovereigns. 'In the waistcoat pocket, wrapped up in a piece of paper, 'and this man is a hobo or nothing.'

They left the body to the care of the surgeon and drove back to Scotland Yard in a squad car. Tanner was waiting in Terry's room. He was smoking a cigarette and reading a newspaper, which he put down as they entered.

'Did you find the will?' he asked.

'No, but we found one or two other things,' said Terry. 'When were you in your bedroom last?'

Tanner's eyebrows rose. 'Do you mean in Berkeley Square? I haven't been there since morning.'

Terry eyed him keenly. 'Are you sure?' The man nodded. 'Have you been to your desk for anything?'

'Desk? Oh, you mean the little secretaire. No.'

'Was there anything valuable there?'

Eddie Tanner considered. 'Yes, there were twelve pounds in gold. It's been amusing me to collect English sovereigns since your people came off the gold standard. As for me going into my bedroom, I've just remembered that when I tried to get into the room this afternoon it was locked. I thought the housekeeper had locked it, but I didn't bother to send for her. She does lock up sometimes. Mr. Decadon had a servant who stole things a few months ago--I wasn't in the house at the time, but I've heard about it--and apparently there was quite an epidemic of caution. Has the money gone?'

'I have it in my pocket, as a matter of fact,' said Terry grimly, 'but I can't give it to you yet.'

He took from his pocket the little tin box, went to his desk, took out a collection of keys and tried them on the lock. Presently he found one that fitted, and the box opened. One side fell down; behind it was a small linen pad. When he pushed back the lid he saw the contents.

'A rubber stamp outfit!' he said in surprise.

Jiggs, looking over his shoulder, picked out one of the three wooden- backed stamps and examined it in amazement.

'Well, I'll go to...!'

They were the rubber impressions of fingerprints, and their surface still bore a thin film of moisture.

'That's where the fingerprints came from,' said Terry slowly. 'The man who killed Decadon stopped to fix the blame on somebody.' He looked at Eddie Tanner. 'You must have some pretty powerful enemies, Mr, Tanner.'

Tanner smiled. 'I've got one,' he said softly, 'and he's got a whole lot of friends.'

He looked up, caught Jiggs' questioning eye, and smiled again.

At three o'clock in the morning there was a conference of all heads of Scotland Yard, and it was a delicate compliment to Jiggs Allerman's prescience and popularity that he was admitted.

The fingerprint officer on duty brought one or two interesting facts.

'The tramp has been identified,' he said. 'His name is William Board, alias William Crane, alias Walter Cork. He has seven convictions for vagrancy and five for petty larceny.'

'He's a tramp, then?' said Terry.

That's all we know about him,' said the fingerprint man.

Jiggs shook his head vigorously.

'He committed no murder,' he said. 'I never met a hobo who was quick enough for that kind of crime. He may have put the prints on. How did he get into the yard?'

The Assistant Commissioner, wise in the ways of criminals, had a logical explanation to give.

'The man who killed Mr. Decadon also killed Board. He was used as a tool and destroyed because he would have made a dangerous witness. He was shot with a powerful air-pistol at close range, according to the doctor. You've released Tanner?'

Terry nodded. 'Yes, we couldn't very well keep him after we found the stamps. The only tenable theory is that Board broke into the house earlier in the day, before the police came on the scene, and concealed himself in Tanner's bedroom. He was wearing Tanner's slippers and a pair of overshoes which were admittedly in the bedroom. What I can't understand is why he should take that risk. Tanner was in and out of the suite all day.'

'Suppose Tanner had him there?' said Jiggs. They looked at him.

'Why should Tanner have him there?' asked Terry scornfully. 'To manufacture evidence against himself?'

'That sounds illogical, doesn't it?' said Jiggs with strange gentleness. 'Maybe at this late hour I've got a little tired and foolish. One thing is certain, gentlemen: the first shot in the campaign has been fired. Tomorrow morning's newspapers are going to carry the story of the demand for fifty thousand pounds--old man Decadon is the awful example that will start the ball rolling. The point is, will it start both balls rolling? I rather think it will.'

The Assistant Commissioner laughed. 'You're being mysterious, Jiggs.'

'Ain't I just!' said Jiggs.

Terry went back to his office, and sat down in the quietude of that hour and worked out the puzzle of the day. It was not going to be an easy one to solve, and he had a depressed feeling that Jiggs' pessimistic prophecy might be fulfilled.

He was sitting with his head on his hands, near to being asleep, when the telephone rang and jerked him awake. The Scotland Yard operator spoke to him. 'There's a woman on the phone who wishes to speak to you, sir. I think she's talking from a call box.'

Who is she?' asked Terry.

'Mrs. Smith. But I don't think you know her. Shall I put you through?'

Terry heard a click, and then an anxious voice hailed him.

'Is that Mr. Terry, of Scotland Yard, the detective?'

It was rather a common voice.

'Yes, I'm Mr. Terry Weston.'

'Excuse me for bothering you, sir, but is Miss Ranger coming home soon? I'm getting a little anxious.'

'Miss Ranger?' Terry sat up. 'What do you mean--is she coming home soon? She went home a long time ago.'

'Yes, sir, but she was called out again by a Scotland Yard gentleman--an American gentleman. They told her you wanted to see her.'

'What time was this?' asked Terry, a little breathlessly.

She thought it was about ten, but was vague on the subject. 'She'd only just got in, and was having a bite of supper, which I made her have...'

'How long after she came in did she go out?'

The woman thought it was a quarter of an hour.

'Where do you live?'

She told him. It was a little street in Bloomsbury.

'I'll be there in five minutes,' said Terry. 'Just wait for me, will you?'

He rang for a car, and went down the stairs two at a time. In less than five minutes he was in the neat parlour of the landlady. She could only tell him substantially the story she had already told.

There had been a knock at the door and she had answered it. A man was standing there, and by the kerb was a car and another man. He said he was from Scotland Yard and spoke distinctly with an American accent. He said Mr. Terry Weston wished the young lady to go to the Yard immediately. She remembered definitely that he said 'Weston.'

'Would you recognise him again?' asked Terry, his heart sinking.

She did not think so. It was a very dark night and she had not taken much notice of him. The girl had gone almost at once. She had been particularly impressed by the fact that the two men had raised their hats to her as she came out of the house. She thought it was so nice to see detectives being polite to a lady.

'They drove off towards Bloomsbury Square,' she said.

She had stood at the door and watched the car go. Then, to Terry's astonishment: 'The car was numbered XYD7000.'

'You noticed the number?' he asked quickly. The landlady had a weakness for counting up numbers on number-plates. She had, she said, a faith--and a very complete faith--that if the numbers added up to four and she saw two fours in succession, she was going to have a lucky day. She betted on races, she added unnecessarily.

Terry went round to the call box from which she had telephoned, got through to the Yard and handed in the number. 'Find out who owns this, and ask the Flying Squad to supply me with a unit.'

By the time he reached the Yard the information was available. The car was owned by the Bloomsbury and Holborn Car Hire Company, but it was impossible to discover from their garage to whom it was hired at the moment. All inquiries in this direction were suddenly blocked when a report came up that a car bearing this number, and genuinely hired to a doctor, had been stolen that night in Bloomsbury Park.

'That's that!' groaned Terry. 'Warn all stations to look for it and arrest the driver and its occupants.'

Then began a feverish search which was almost without parallel in the annals of the Flying Squad. Crew after crew were brought in on urgent summons, and shot off east, west, north and south.

In the morning, as day was breaking, a motorcyclist patrol saw a car abandoned in a field by the side of the Colnbrook by-pass. He went forward to investigate, and instantly recognised the number for which the whole of the Metropolitan police had been searching. He jumped off his machine and ran forward. The blinds were drawn. He pulled open the door and saw a girl lying in one corner of the car. She was fast asleep. It was Leslie Ranger.

* * * * *

Leslie had had no idea that anything was wrong till the speed of the car increased and one of the two 'detectives' who were sitting with her leaned forward and began to pull down the blinds.

'Don't do that,' she said.

'You just sit quiet, missie, and don't talk,' said the man, 'and if you just sit quiet and don't talk you ain't going to be hurt--see?'

She nearly fainted when she realised that she had been the victim of a trick.

'Where are we going?' she asked, but they did not answer. In fact, neither of the men spoke.

They must have travelled for the better part of an hour, when the car swerved suddenly round a sharp corner, followed a bumpy road, turned again to the left and stopped. One of the men took a scarf from his pocket and blindfolded her, and she submitted meekly. She was assisted from the car, walked along a paved pathway and into a house.

It must have been a small house, because the two men had to walk behind her, one of them guiding her by her elbows. She turned sharp left again, and guessed that she was in a room where there were several men. She could smell the pungent odour of cigar smoke.

'Tell her to sit down,' said somebody in a whisper, and, when she had obeyed: 'Now, miss, perhaps you'll tell us what happened at old man Decadon's house. You'll tell us the truth and you'll answer any questions that are put to you, and nothing's going to happen to you.'

The man who said all this spoke in a sort of harsh, high whisper. He was obviously disguising his voice.

She was terribly frightened, but felt that there was nothing to be gained by refusing to speak or by suppressing anything she knew; so she told them very frankly and freely, and answered their questions without hesitation.

They seemed most interested and insistent in their inquiries about Eddie Tanner. Where had he been? Was she sure they were his fingerprints? When she told about the revolver on the floor somebody laughed, and the questioner snarled an angry admonition, after which there was silence. This inquisition lasted two hours. They brought her hot coffee, for which she was grateful, and eventually she said:

'All right, kid. You can tell the police all about this--there's no reason why you shouldn't. But don't tell more'n the truth, or ever try to line me up by my voice.'

They had taken her back to the car and made her comfortable, and that was all she remembered, except that another car was following them all the time. She fell asleep while the vehicle was still in motion, and knew nothing until the policeman woke her up.

Terry expected something big in the morning Press, but he was hardly prepared for the importance which the newspapers gave to the two murders. 'Is this the beginning of a new era of lawlessness?' asked the Megaphone blackly.

Fleet Street seemed to recognise instantly the significance of the two crimes which shocked London that morning. 'The Beginning of the Rackets' was a headline in one journal. Fleet Street, living on print, was impressed by print. That notice, which had been sent to Elijah Decadon, neatly printed in blue ink, spelt organisation on a large scale.

And yet Scotland Yard received no intimation that any other rich or prominent man had had a similar warning. From one end of England to the other the newspapers were shocked and wrathful, and their leading articles revealed an energy to combat the new peril which impressed even Jiggs Allerman.

The tramp's antecedents had been quickly traced. He had been living in a lodging-house, but had not been to his room for two nights prior to the murder. He was a fairly reticent man, and had not discussed his business with anybody.

During the night the Assistant Commissioner had been on the telephone to Chicago, and had secured permission to attach Jiggs Allerman to the Scotland Yard staff as a temporary measure. Jiggs, with his new authority, had spent all the morning at the house in Berkeley Square. He came back to the Yard to find Terry reading the newspapers. 'Did you find anything?' asked Terry.

'Yeah.' Jiggs nodded. 'The old man had fitted up a kitchenette for Tanner. There's a gas-stove there.'

He took out of his pocket an envelope, opened it carefully and picked out a strand of thin wire six inches in length.

'Found this wound around one of the burners, and outside the top landing of the fire-escape there's a hook fixed into the wall, and fixed recently.'

'What do you make of that?' asked Terry.

Jiggs scratched his chin. 'Why, I make a lot of that,' he said. 'What was the direction of the wind last night?'

Terry took up a newspaper and turned the pages till he came to the weather report. 'Moderate north-west.'

'Grand. What's been puzzling me more than anything else has been the disappearance of the air-pistol. That had to be got rid of pretty quick, and the tramp Board wasn't the kind of man to think quick and, anyway, he didn't get rid of it! But he helped.'

Terry frowned at him. 'You're being a little mysterious, Jiggs.'

'I know I am,' admitted Jiggs. 'That's my speciality.' He leaned down over the table and spoke emphatically. 'There was only one possible way that gun could be got rid of, and I knew just how it had happened when one of the maids in the next house said somebody had smashed the window of her bedroom a few minutes after the murder was committed--I'm talking about the murder of the tramp, and the time we've got to guess at.' He took a pencil from his pocket and made a rough plan. 'There's the courtyard. One side of it's made up of the back premises of the next-door house. The maid slept on the fourth floor; she'd gone to bed early because she had to be up at six.

'She was just going off to sleep, when her window was smashed in by somebody on the outside. When I say "somebody" I mean "something." Now the fourth floor of that house is one floor higher--roughly fifteen feet--than the top floor in Decadon's house, and when I heard about that window being smashed and found the wire on the gas burner and the hook on the wall, I got your people to phone every balloon-maker in London and find out who made a toy balloon that could lift a couple of pounds when it was filled with coal- gas.'

Terry stared at him. 'I've heard of that being done once.'

'Now you've heard of it being done twice,' Jiggs finished for him. 'The balloon was filled in the kitchenette; the end of it was tied round the burner-- the gas pressure is pretty high in that neighbourhood. Just before the murder the mouth was tied, the balloon was taken out on to the fire-escape and fastened with a string or wire to the hook. The hook was upside down; that is to say, the point of it was downward. After Board was killed the murderer tied the gun to the balloon and let it go. The wind must have been fresh then, and as it went upwards the pistol smashed against the window of the housemaid's room. You know my methods, Weston,' he added sardonically.

Terry figured this out for a few minutes. Then

'But if your theory is correct, the murderer must have come up the fire- escape after he'd killed Board.'

Jiggs nodded slowly. 'You've said it, kid.'

'Do you still believe that Tanner was the murderer?'

Jiggs smiled. 'It's no question of believing, it's knowing. Sure he was the murderer!'

'And that he deliberately left evidence to incriminate himself?'

'Well, he's free, isn't he?' demanded Jiggs. 'And clear of suspicion. You haven't a case to go to the Grand Jury, have you? Those stamps with his fingerprints on let him out. You couldn't get a conviction. And in a way you've taken all suspicion from him, made him a victim instead of a murderer. He's free--that's the answer. I've told you, he's the greatest psychologist I've met. Suppose you hadn't found fingerprints or a gun, where would suspicion have pointed--at Ed! There's the will gone, and Ed's the old man's legatee at law. What he did was to bring suspicion on himself at once, and destroy it at once. How far is the sea from here?'

'About fifty miles,' said Terry.

Jiggs whistled softly to himself. 'Ed never made a mistake. The gasbag he used would stay up two hours, so you'll never see that pistol again. It'll drop in the sea somewhere.'

'We've had no further complaints from people about these demands,' said Terry.

'You'll get 'em,' said the other, with a grim smile. 'Give 'em time to let it soak in.' He looked at his watch. 'I'm going along to the American bar at the Cecilia,' he said. 'I've got quite an idea I'll hear a lot of interesting news.'

The Cecilia bar is the rendezvous of most Americans visiting London. The gorgeous Egyptian room, dedicated to the cocktail, was filled by the time Jiggs got there. He found a little table and a chair that was vacant, and sat down patiently for the arrival of his man. It was nearing noon when Kerky Smith came leisurely into the bar, the bony chin lifted, the thin, set smile on his face. He looked round, apparently did not see Jiggs, and strolled to the door. Jiggs finished his drink deliberately, beckoned the waiter and put his hand in his pocket. He had no intention of leaving, but it would require such a gesture as this to bring the Big Boy to him.

'Why, Jiggs!'

Kerky Smith came forward with a flashing smile, his ring-laden hands extended. He took Jiggs' hand in both of his and pressed it affectionately.

'Not going, are you? Say, I wanted to talk to you.' He looked round, found a chair and dragged it to the table. 'Isn't it too bad about that old guy? I'll bet Ed is just prostrated with grief!'

'Where did you get that international expression from--"prostrated with grief"?'

'Saw it in a book somewhere,' said Kerky shamelessly. 'Funny how you can get all kinds of swell expressions if you keep your eyes open. Left him all his money, ain't he? Well, he needed it. He was short of a million to carry out all the big ideas he has.'

'It will be months before he can touch a cent,' said Jiggs.

The thin eyebrows of Kerky Smith rose. 'Is that so? I guess you can borrow money on wills, can't you? Ed was down at a moneylender's this morning.'

Jiggs was politely interested. 'What kind of a racket was he in when he was running round Chi?' he asked.

Kerky shook his head slowly. There was in his face a hint of disapproval. 'I hardly know the man,' he said. 'And what's all this about rackets? I read about 'em in the newspapers, but I don't know any of these birds.' He said this with a perfectly straight face. Jiggs would have been surprised if he had not. Seems to be some kind of racket starting here,' he went on. 'Has anybody asked Ed to pay? He's a rich guy now.'

'What was his racket in Chicago?' repeated Jiggs, without any hope of being satisfied, for gangland does not talk scandal even of its worst enemies.

'He was just a playboy, I guess. I used to see him around Arlington, and he lived at the Blackstone, That's the kind of bird he was.'

Jiggs leaned across the table and lowered his voice. 'Kerky, you remember the shooting of Big Sam Polini? The choppers got him as he came out of mass one morning--a friend of yours, wasn't he?'

There was a hard look in Kerky's eyes, but he was still smiling.

'I knew the man,' he said simply.

'One of your crowd, wasn't he? Who got him?'

Kerky's smile broadened. 'Why, if I knew I'd tell the police,' he said. 'Joe Polini was a swell fellow. Too bad he was shot up.'

'Did Ed know anything about it?'

Kerky wagged his head wearily. 'Now what's the use of asking fool questions like that, Jiggs? I've told you before I don't know anything about him, He seems a nice feller to me, and I wouldn't say a word against him. Especially now, when he's in mourning.'

Jiggs saw the sly, quick, sidelong glance that the other shot at him, and supplied his own interpretation.

'I'm going off to Paris one day this week,' said Kerky. 'If they start any racket here I want to be out of it. London's the last place you'd expect gunplay. Say, you're at Scotland Yard now, ain't you?'

'Who told you that?'

Kerky shrugged his thin shoulders. 'Sort of story going round that you've been loaned.' He bent over and laid his hand on Jiggs' shoulder. 'I kinda like you, Jiggs. You're a swell guy. I wouldn't stay around here if I were you--no, sir! Of course, you could stay and make it pay. A friend of mine wants some detective work done, and he'd pay a hundred thousand dollars to the right kind of guy. All he'd have to do would be just to sit around and be dumb when anything was happening. You might be very useful to my friend.'

'Is your friend seeking a divorce or just salvation from the gallows?' asked Jiggs bluntly.

Kerky got up from the table. 'You make me tired, Jiggs,' he said. 'Some of you fellers are swell, but you can't think with your heads.'

'I can think better with my head than with my pocket, Kerky. Tell your friends there's nothing doing and, if they try another way of making me drunk, that I'm packing two guns, and they've got to do their shooting pretty quick.'

Kerky shook his head and sighed. 'You're talking like one of them gang pictures which are so popular in Hollywood,' he said.

He called the waiter to him and paid him, beamed on his guest and, with a wave of his hand, sauntered across the room to the bar.

Jiggs went out, all his senses alert. There was a little dark-faced man, elaborately dressed, sitting in the vestibule of the hotel, gazing vacantly at the wall opposite. He wore a gold and diamond ring on the little finger of his left hand. Jiggs watched him as he passed; he so manoeuvred himself that his back was never towards the idler, who apparently was taking no notice of him, and did not even turn his head.

By the door leading out to the courtyard of the hotel was another little man, blue-chinned, dark-eyed, quite unconscious, apparently, of Jiggs' presence. Captain Allerman avoided him, but he did not take his eyes off him until there were half a dozen people between them.

There would be quite an exciting time in London before the end of the week, he decided, as a cab took him back to his hotel, and he wondered if the English people in general, and the English police in particular, quite knew what was going to happen. Prohibition was something they read about in the newspaper and the resulting gang warfare a disaster which happened only in the States.

When he went in to lunch he met some men he knew. They were talking about the Decadon murder. None of them apparently saw anything in the threatening note that in any way menaced their own security.

He was called from lunch by a telephone message from Terry.

'I'll come along and join you,' said Terry. 'There's been a development. Can we go up to your room?'

'Sure,' said Jiggs.

He was waiting for the inspector when he arrived, and they went up in the lift together to Jiggs' suite.

'Here's a new one.'

Terry took from his pocket a leather case and extracted a folded note. It was exactly the same size as the warning which old Decadon had received, but it was printed in green ink and differently worded.

'Dear Friend (it began)

'We are out to ensure your comfort and security. We are a band of men who will offer you protection against your enemies and even against your friends. You need not worry about burglars or hold-up men if you trust us. If you agree to employ us, put a lighted candle in the window of your dining-room between 8 and 8.30 tonight. We are offering you, for the sum of £1000, payable within the next three days, the protection that only our organisation can give you. If you decline our services you will, we fear, be killed. If you take this note to the police or consult them in any way, nothing can save you. Have a thousand pounds in American or French currency in an envelope, and after you have put the candle in your window you will receive a telephone message explaining how this money is to be paid.'

It was signed 'Safety and Welfare Corporation.'

'Printed in green ink, eh? Well, we've got 'em both working now, the green and the blue. Who had this?'

'A very rich young man called Salaman. He lives in Brook Street, and had it this morning by the first post. We've got no evidence that anybody else has had the warning. Salaman sent it to us at once, and we've put a guard on his house.'

'He didn't come to Scotland Yard?'

'No, we avoided that. He telephoned first and sent the letter by special messenger.'

Jiggs pursed his lips. 'They'll know all about it. What have you advised him to do?'

'To put a candle in his window, and we'll get a man into the house tonight who'll take the message.'

Jiggs was not impressed. 'I'm telling you that they know he's been to the police. What sort of man is he?'

Terry hesitated. 'Not the highest type of citizen. Plenty of money and a few odd tastes. He's a bachelor, a member of the smartest set--which doesn't necessarily mean the best set. I've got an idea that he's rather on the decadent side.'

Jiggs nodded. 'He'll be very lucky if he's not on the dead side,' he said ominously.