THE MAN WHO WAS WRECKED
JOHN BENNETT was working in his garden in the early morning when Elk called, and the inspector came straight to the point.
“There was a burglary committed at the residence of Lord Farmley on Saturday night and Sunday morning. Probably between midnight and three o’clock. The safe was blown and important documents stolen. I’m asking you to account for your movements on Saturday night and Sunday morning.”
Bennett looked the detective straight in the eyes.
“I was on the London road—I walked from town. At two o’clock I was speaking with a policeman in Dorking. At midnight I was in Kingbridge, and again I spoke to a policeman. Both these men know me because I frequently walk to Dorking and Kingbridge. The man at Dorking is an amateur photographer like myself.”
Elk considered.
“I’ve a car here; suppose you come along and see these policemen?” he suggested, and to his surprise Bennett agreed at once.
At Dorking they discovered their man; he was just going off duty.
“Yes, Inspector, I remember Mr. Bennett speaking to me. We were discussing animal photography.”
“You’re sure of the time?”
“Absolutely. At two o’clock the patrol sergeant visits me, and he came up whilst we were talking.”
The patrol sergeant, wakened from his morning sleep, confirmed this statement. The result of the Kingbridge inquiries produced the same results.
Elk ordered the driver of his car to return to Horsham.
“I’m not going to apologize to you, Bennett,” he said, “and you know enough about my work to appreciate my position.”
“I’m not complaining,” said Bennett gruffly. “Duty is duty. But I’m entitled to know why you suspect me of all men in the world.”
Elk tapped the window of the car and it stopped.
“Walk along the road: I can talk better,” he said.
They got out and went some distance without speaking.
“Bennett, you’re under suspicion for two reasons. You’re a mystery man in the sense that nobody knows how you get a living. You haven’t an income of your own. You haven’t an occupation, and at odd intervals you disappear from home and nobody knows where you go. If you were a younger man I’d suspect a double life in the usual sense. But you’re not that kind. That is suspicious circumstance Number One. Here is Number Two. Every time you disappear there’s a big burglary somewhere. And I’ve an idea it’s a Frog steal. I’ll give you my theory. These Frogs are mostly dirt. There isn’t enough brain in the whole outfit to fill an average nut—I’m talking about the mass of ’em. There are clever men higher up, I grant. But they don’t include the regular fellows who make a living from crime. These boys haven’t any time for such nonsense. They plan a job and pull it off, or they get pinched. If they make a getaway, they divide up the stuff and sit around in cafés with girls till all the stuff is gone, and then they go out for some more. But the Frogs are willing to pay good men who are outside the organization for extra work.”
“And you suggest that I may be one of the ‘good men’?” said Bennett.
“That’s just what I am suggesting. This Frog job at Lord Farmley’s was done by an expert—it looks like Saul Morris.”
His keen eyes were focused upon Bennett’s face, but not by so much as a flicker of an eyelash did he betray his thoughts.
“I remember Saul Morris,” said Bennett slowly. “I’ve never seen him, but I’ve heard of his work. Was he—anything like me?”
Elk pursed his lips, his chin went nearer to his chest, and his gaze became more and more intensified.
“If you know anything about Saul Morris,” he said slowly, “you also know that he was never in the hands of the police, that nobody except his own gang ever saw him, so as to be able to recognize him again.”
Another silence.
“I wasn’t aware of that,” said Bennett.
On the way back to the car, Bennett spoke again.
“I bear no malice. My movements are suspicious, but there is a good reason. As to the burglaries—I know nothing about them. I should say that in any case, whether I knew or not. I ask you not to mention this matter to my daughter, because—well, you don’t want me to tell you why.”
Ella was standing at the garden gate when the car came up, and at the sight of Elk the smile left her face. Elk knew instinctively that the thought of her brother, and the possibility of his being in trouble, were the causes of her apprehension.
“Mr. Elk came down to ask me a few questions about the attack on Mr. Gordon,” said her father briefly.
Whatever else he was, thought Elk, he was a poor and unconvincing liar. That the girl was not convinced, he was sure. When they were alone she asked:
“Is anything wrong, Mr. Elk?”
“Nothing, miss. Just come down to refresh my memory—which was never a good one, especially in the matter of dates. The only date I really remember is the landing of William the Conqueror—1140 or thereabouts. Brother gone back to town?”
“He went last night,” she said, and then, almost defiantly: “He is in a good position now, Mr. Elk.”
“So they tell me,” said Elk. “I wish he wasn’t working in the same shop as the bunch who are with him. I’m not letting him out of my sight. Miss Bennett,” he said in a kinder tone. “Perhaps I’ll be able to slip in the right word one of these days. He wouldn’t listen now if I said ‘get!’—he’s naturally in the condition of mind when he’s making up press cuttings about himself. And in a way he’s right. If you don’t know it all at twenty-one you never will. What’s that word that begins with a ‘z’?—‘zenith,’ that’s it. He’s at the zenith of his sure-and-certainness. From now on he’ll start unloading his cargo of dreams an’ take in ballast. But he’ll hate to hear the derricks at work.”
“You talk like a sailor,” she smiled in spite of her trouble.
“I was that once,” said Elk, “the same as old man Maitland—though I’ve never sailed with him—I guess he left the sea years before I was born. Like him?”
“Mr. Maitland? No!” she shivered. “I think he is a terrible man.”
Elk did not disagree.
To Dick Gordon that morning he confessed his error.
“I don’t know why I jumped at Bennett,” he said. “I’m getting young! I see the evening newspapers have got the burglary.”
“But they do not know what was stolen,” said Dick in a low voice. “That must be kept secret.”
They were in the inner bureau, which Dick occupied temporarily. Two men were at work in his larger office replacing a panel which had been shattered by the bullet which had been fired at him on the morning Elk came into the case, and it was symptomatic of the effect that the Frogs had had upon headquarters that both men had almost mechanically scrutinized the left arms of the workmen. The sight of the damaged panel switched Elk’s thoughts to a matter which he had intended raising before—the identity of the tramp Carlo. In spite of the precautions Gordon had taken, and although the man was under observation, Carlo had vanished, and the combined efforts of headquarters and the country offices had failed to locate him. It was a sore point with Gordon, as Elk had reason to know.
For Carlo was the reputable “Number Seven,” the most important man in the organization after the Frog himself.
“I’d like to see this Carlo,” he said thoughtfully. “There’s not much use in putting another man out on the road to follow up Genter’s work. That system doesn’t work twice. I wonder how much Lola knows?”
“Of the Frogs? They wouldn’t trust a woman,” said Dick. “She may work for them, but, as you said, it is likely they bring in outsiders for special jobs and pay them well.”
Elk did not carry the matter any further, and spent the rest of the day in making fruitless inquiries. Returning to his room at headquarters that night, he sat for a long time hunched up in his chair, his hands thrust into his trousers pockets, staring down at the blotting-pad. Then he pressed a bell, and his clerk, Balder, came.
“Go to Records, get me all that is known about every safe-breaker known in this country. You needn’t worry about the German and French, but there’s a Swede or two who are mighty clever with the lamp, and of course there are the Americans.”
They came after a long interval—a considerable pile of papers, photographs and finger-prints.
“You can go, Balder—the night man can take them back.” He settled himself down to an enjoyable night’s reading.
He was nearing the end of the pile when he came to the portrait of a young man with a drooping moustache and a bush of curly hair. It was one of those sharp positives that unromantic police officials take, and showed whatever imperfections of skin there were. Beneath the photograph was the name, carefully printed: “Henry John Lyme, R.V.”
“R.V.” was the prison code. Every year from 1874 to 1899 was indicated by a capital letter in the alphabet. Thereafter ran the small letters. The “R” meant that Henry J. Lyme had been sentenced to penal servitude in 1891. The “V” that he had suffered a further term of convict imprisonment in 1895.
Elk read the short and terrible record. Born in Guernsey in 1873, the man had been six times convicted before he was twenty (the minor convictions are not designated by letters in the code). In the space at the foot of the blank in which particulars were given of his crime, were the words:
“Dangerous; carries firearms.” In another hand, and in the red ink which is used to close a criminal career, was written: “Died at sea. Channel Queen. Black Rock. Feb. 1, 1898.”
Elk remembered the wreck of the Guernsey mail packet on the Black Rocks.
He turned back the page to read particulars of the dead man’s crimes, and the comments of those who from time to time had been brought into official contact with him. In these scraps of description was the real biography. “Works alone,” was one comment, and another; “No women clue—women never seen with him.” A third scrawl was difficult to decipher, but when Elk mastered the evil writing, he half rose from the chair in his excitement. It was:
“Add to body marks in general D.C.P. 14 frog tattooed left wrist. New. J. J. M.”
The date against which this was written was the date of the man’s last conviction. Elk turned up the printed blank “D.C.P.14” and found it to be a form headed “Description of Convicted Person.” The number was the classification. There was no mention of tattooed frogs: somebody had been careless. Word by word he read the description:
“Henry John Lyme, a. Young Harry, a. Thomas Martin, a. Boy Peace, a. Boy Harry (there were five lines of aliases). Burglar (dangerous; carries firearms). Height 5 ft. 6 in. Chest 38. Complexion fresh, eyes grey, teeth good, mouth regular, dimple in chin. Nose straight. Hair brown, wavy, worn long. Face round. Moustache drooping; wears side-whiskers. Feet and hands normal. Little toe left foot amputated first joint owing to accident, H.M. Prison, Portland. Speaks well, writes good hand. Hobbies none. Smokes cigarettes. Poses as public official, tax collector, sanitary inspector, gas or water man. Speaks French and Italian fluently. Never drinks; plays cards but no gambler. Favourite hiding place, Rome or Milan. No conviction abroad. No relations. Excellent organizer. Immediately after crime, look for him at good hotel in Midlands or working to Hull for the Dutch or Scandinavian boats. Has been known to visit Guernsey. . . .”
Here followed the Bertillon measurements and body marks—this was in the days before the introduction of the finger-print system. But there was no mention of the Frog on the left wrist. Elk dropped his pen in the ink and wrote in the missing data. Underneath he added:
“This man may still be alive,” and signed his initials.