Читать книгу The Hand of Power - Edgar Wallace - Страница 11

Table of Contents

BILL gaped at him in amazement.

"Miss Elizabeth Carew? Miss Betty Carew, you mean—the actress?"

"As an actress she has never impressed me," said Mr. Marsh.

He pulled a very ornate gold case from his pocket, opened it and took out a cigarette, snapped the case and handed it for Bill's inspection.

"It cost me twenty-five pounds," he said laconically. "Every time the police pinch me, they try to find an owner for it, and after I've kept them walking about London till their feet ache, I introduce them to the jeweller from whom it was purchased. It is one of my recreations. Yes, sir, Miss Betty Carew is the lady to whom I refer."

"But, my dear, good man, what the devil are you talking about?" asked the irritated Bill. "Voice of the Absolute... Twenty-Third Degree do you suggest that Miss Carew is a member of this amiable order?"

The man shook his head. His eyes were alight with a mischievous satisfaction.

"I saw you talking to the 'flattie'*—daresay he described me, and with perfect accuracy, as a burglar. To such clods as P.C. Simmonds and his kind, I am nothing more. With their lack of imagination it is almost impossible that they should see below the surface, and discover an intellect. The police have no mysteries—the introduction of the finger-print system destroyed whatever romance remained in the business of thief-catching. But when you see Bullott—a pleasant, but somewhat inexperienced officer—will you be good enough to mention to him my few remarks in regard to the Twenty-Third Degree?"

[ * London thieves' argot for uniformed policeman.]

And, lifting his hat, he stalked away, leaving Bill with that baffled feeling, which came to the old-time heroes of fairy stories, who heard cows speak and fish proclaim their royal origin.

It was Bill Holbrook's fortune to be the sole boarder of a Sub-Inspector of Police, a quiet, uncommunicative man, young looking, considering his rank, and interested (outside of his own work, about which he never spoke) in the breeding of canaries.

Bill had two excellent rooms, a view of a garden, which in summer was a joyous vision, and a large share of liquid melody, which the song birds provided. That night, when he was puzzling out the strange words of his newest acquaintance, there came a tap at his door, and in response to his invitation, his landlord appeared in the doorway.

"Hullo! Come in, Mr. Bullott. Do you want me? Don't put your pipe out."

"I was wondering if you'd let me have one of your papers."

There was a pile of newspapers on a shelf, and Bill pointed.

"Help yourself—they're all there. Did you wish any particular one?"

"The Times—I wanted to see if that agony was in again. I didn't have time at the Yard; the Deptford murder kept me busy."

Getting up, Holbrook found the newspaper.

"Which agony?" he asked. He had all the reporter's curiosity, and Bill Holbrook might label himself publicity expert and advertising genius, but he was newspaper man all through.

"Here it is."

Bullott folded the paper and pointed.

"Sylvia. I'm calling. Be ready to pung. Green Dragon."

"What the dickens does that mean?" asked Bill.

Mr. Bullott puffed his pipe vigorously—it was evidence of his enjoyment of the mystification.

"It is a mah-jongg term—the Chinese game that has caught on. Green Dragon is one of the tiles, and when a player says 'I'm calling' it means that he only wants one piece for game. To 'pung' is to complete a three or a pair. Two days ago the same kind of ad appeared, only this time it said, 'East Wind. Hurry.'"

"East wind?"

"The four players at mah-jongg are called after the four winds. East is the chief player. It may be an advertisement for the game. On the other hand, it may be a code message between two silly young people. Thank you."

He handed the paper back, and, having acquired for the time being a habit of loquacity, seemed loth to leave. And then Bill remembered Mr. Toby Marsh and his remarkable behaviour.

"I suppose you've had a few queer folks through your hands at times?" asked Bill, by way of opening.

The inspector shook his head.

"I've never had a real case—never arrested a man in my life—never been in a witness-box in my life."

Sub-Inspector Bullott made the confession with the melancholy pride that a penitent confesses his sins.

Bill could only stare at him.

"You've never—oh, Lord! Why are you in the police? Wherefore the badge and insignia of your exalted rank? A policeman!—I don't believe you."

The inspector sighed.

"It's a fact. A perfectly terrible memory has been my ruin," he said. "They took me off my beat when I was constable before I'd ever seen a man kick a dog—why, I never so much as pinched a Percy for speeding! I was on a dull beat where nothing happened except when it rained."

"What happened then?" asked the unsuspecting Mr. Holbrook.

"It rained," said the other laconically. "It was just a good-class residential district, where they believe in hell and look forward to the annual flower show. You know the kind. The worst crime that was ever committed on my territory was wearing last year's hat to a wedding. But I'd got a trick of memorising motor-car numbers—you can learn it. I could hold in my head four hundred numbers and tell you who drove, man or woman, and how many passengers the flivver carried. And one day the flying squad was out looking for Joe Stortling, the hold-up man, and they sent round to know if anybody had seen his car. I remembered the number, and where I had seen it. When the inspector in charge discovered my gift, they turned me out of Brockley and put me in Records. I know every habitual criminal that ever went inside. I could recognise three hundred American crooks and nearly as many French; I can read at a glance any finger-print you put in front of me, but if I was called upon to pinch a man, I'd be more embarrassed than the prisoner."

Bill was regarding him in awe.

"You poor soul!" he said in a hushed voice. "I've met the type, but in other spheres. You're the Child that Never Went to a Party! Gosh! Don't you ever want a real honest cop, Bullott?"

To the mild blue eyes of his landlord came a strange gleam.

"Don't I! And I'll never get promotion any other way. But when I ask them for a 'street,' they smile, and say: 'Things have changed since you were outside, Bullott.' They've got a notion that I sleep in the office, and have never seen a motor-car. They think if they let me loose in London, I'd be run over by a motor bus."

Bill cogitated profoundly, his eye upon the inspector's face.

"Can't you break into a case—sort of get on to it before any of the divisional police come on the spot? They wouldn't send you away. You're a Yard man."

"I suppose not," said Mr. Bullott vaguely, as he filled his pipe. "No, I guess they wouldn't. As a matter of fact, the chief—McPherson—said to me only the other day: 'Get into any good case, and you can have it—pick anything that comes up to your department for identification and grab on to it,' but, Holbrook, I haven't seen a case worth changing my slippers for."

"Oh, by the way"—Bill suddenly remembered—"do you know a man named Toby Marsh?"

"Burglar," said the other promptly; "twice charged and once convicted. Height sixty-five inches spare build, light blue eyes, wears glasses, two incisor teeth missing. Lives in Robbs Road—which is a well-named thoroughfare for a man of his profession—Maida Vale; uses very long words, and has a hobby for prying into other people's affairs. Yes, I know him."

"So I gather," said Bill drily. "I met him to-day. He's a mysterious kind of person."

Bullott nodded.

"Yes, that's his hobby, mystifying people. When he was caught some years ago breaking into a City office, the only thing he said to the officer who arrested him was: 'Mrs. Collitt is going to get married again; you'd better tell Collitt.'"

"And did she?" asked Bill.

"She did," said the other grimly. "Don't you remember the case, Mr. Holbrook? You were on the Dispatch-Herald at the time. Mrs. Collitt ran a milliner's business in Oxford Street—a youngish looking woman."

"Good Lord, yes!" gasped Bill. "Her husband disappeared, and they found him buried under the centre flower-bed in his garden. She got a lifer. Did Toby Marsh know all about that?"

"Months before it happened," said Bullott. "I remember that so well, because it was the first time I had been in a prison. I went down to Dartmoor to interview him, but he was mum as a mummy. Why, what has he been saying?"

He had been on the point of leaving. Now he closed the door which he had half opened, pulled up a chair, and, under the stimulus of interest, was galvanised into a new being.

"I couldn't tell you what he said or what he meant, except that he mentioned a lady's name, and said that she was the Golden Voice of the Absolute."

"Golden Voice of the Absolute?" repeated Mr. Bullott slowly. "In what connection?"

"He was talking about the Proud Sons of Ragusa—you've heard of them?"

"Yes, yes, I've heard of them," said the other, almost impatiently. "They're a society which run a lottery; they have yearly and half-yearly drawings. The society was founded by a man named Leiff Stone, a crazy American who believes in theosophy and ghosts—Absolute!" He smacked his knee. "Why, of course, the Golden Voice of the Absolute would mean somebody inspired by the supreme spirit of the universe! Now, tell me that all over again." He listened tensely, whilst Bill described the Ragusans' procession and his subsequent conversation with the burglar.

"Betty Carew—that's the actress, isn't it? Yes, I know her. But has she anything to do with the Ragusans?"

"She's never heard of them, I'll bet," said Bill, emphatically.

Bullott scratched his chin.

"Twenty-Third Degree? What the dickens is the Twenty-Third Degree? I'm going to inquire into this. I'll tell you that this man, Marsh, gets information which never comes the way of the police. I don't know how he gets it—probably while he's burgling, for he's working all the time, though we've never been able to catch him. Toby 'smashes' queer places. Ordinary jewel shops and office safes are beneath him. It's when you hear that the Headquarters of the Sunday School Union has been broken into that you begin to suspect Toby. Lawyers' offices used to be his long suit. They say he learnt enough in twelve months' work to keep him in luxury for the rest of his life if he'd been a blackmailer. But Toby never 'put the black' on anybody, as far as I've heard. He's just burglar, talkative burglar, if you like—" He drew a long breath. "I'd give a lot of money to know Toby's last job!" he said, and Bill saw the fanatical light of the statistician in his eyes.