The Fourth Plague (2 page)

Among the very best German films are
The Fellowship of the Frog
(1960), in which Graham Greene's Harry Lime is used (unseen);
The Terrible People
(1960), a somewhat altered version in which the executed criminal returns but the original ending is changed;
Forger of London
(1961), in which a young aristocrat fears that during an amnesia period he became a counterfeiter; the brooding
Inn on the River
(1962), in which a harpoon is the instrument in several murders alongside the Thames;
Curse of the Yellow Snake
(1963), Wallace's tribute to Fu Manchu (see Fu Manchu, Dr.);
The Indian Scarf
(1963), a wild mix of
The Frightened Lady
(the title refers to the strangler's tool) and an “and-then-there-were-none” theme; and
The Black Abbot
(1963), with its eerie castle setting. The Wallace film craze continued with only slightly lessened vigor into the 1970s, with such blood-curdling titles as
The Mad Executioner
,
The Phantom of Soho
, and
The College Girl Murders
; a voice identifying itself as Wallace chuckles macabrely under the credits of such films as
Hand of Power
.

In the meantime, England experienced a Wallace film resurrection of almost equal magnitude. In 1960 Jack Greenwood began producing a series of short screen adaptations, all slightly more than an hour in length, for secondary theatrical release, and ultimately for British and American television use, under the umbrella title
Edgar Wallace Mystery Theater
. A bust of the author revolved sinisterly in smoke under the credits. In more than forty films (a few actually the unacknowledged work of other writers, including George Baxt; see Garve, Andrew), the compact scenarios sometimes overcondensed Wallace's complex stories, but often his characteristic twists and surprises survived the constriction. Some of the highlights of the series are listed below.

The Clue of the Twisted Candle
. Anglo-Amalgamated (British), 1960. Bernard Lee (the first of several appearances as Superintendant Meredith of Scotland Yard), David Knight. Directed by Allan Davis. Based on the 1918 novel. In a room locked from the inside, a millionaire is found murdered; near him are two half-burned candles.

The Malpas Mystery
. Anglo-Amalgamated (British), 1960. Maureen Swanson, Allan Cuthbertson, Geoffrey Keen, Ronald Howard. Directed by Sidney Hayers. Based on
The Face in the Night
(1924). A girl, a former convict, and now secretary to a strange recluse, learns that she is the heir to a fortune- from her long-lost father, who is searching for her.

The Man Who Was Nobody
. Anglo-Amalgamated (British), 1961. Hazel Court, John Crawford, Lisa Daniely. Directed by Montgomery Tully. Based on the 1927 novel. A girl private detective's search for a missing playboy leads her to the mysterious “South Africa Smith.”

Clue of the New Pin
. Anglo-Amalgamated (British), 1961. Paul Daneman, Bernard Archard. Directed by Davis. Based on the 1923 novel. Again, a millionaire is found killed in a locked room, the key to the door on a table near him.

The Fourth Square
. Anglo-Amalgamated (British), 1961. Conrad Phillips, Natasha Parry, Delphi Lawrence, Daneman. Directed by Davis. From
Four Square Jane
(1928). Three valuable jewels are stolen from three London squares, with murder thrown in.

Man at the Carlton Tower
. Anglo-Amalgamated (British), 1961. Maxine Audley, Lee Montague. Directed by Robert Tronson. From
The Man at the Carlton
(1931), the title altered so that scenes could be filmed at the newly constructed Carlton Tower Hotel. The chief suspect in a jewelry theft vanishes, his partner and the police searching for him.

Clue of the Silver Key
. Anglo-Amalgamated (British), 1961. Lee (Meredith), Alexander Knox, Moira Redmond. Directed by Gerard Glaister. From the 1930 novel. In another “impossible” crime, a bad-tempered blind moneylender is found shot to death.

The Share Out
. Anglo-Amalgamated (British), 1962. Lee (Meredith), Alexander Knox, Moira Redmond. Directed by Glaister. From
Jack O'Judgment
(1920). A shady private investigator tries to clear his past by helping Scotland Yard close in on a large blackmail ring, many of whose members are suddenly murdered.

Number Six
. Anglo-Amalgamated (British), 1962. Ivan Desny, Nadja Regin, Michael Goodliffe, Brian Bedford. Directed by Tronson. From the 1927 novel. Criminals try to ferret out the identity of “Number 6,” Scotland Yard's secret agent.

Although the series continued for several more years, less attention was paid to Wallace sources.

In 1959 thirty-nine half-hour television programs were fashioned from
The Four Just Men
, featuring, in turn, the adventures of Dan Dailey, Jack Hawkins, Richard Conte, and Vittorio De Sica, who, as private citizens, corrected injustices in various parts of the world.

Wallace was quite successful in contributing to England's rich tradition of melodrama theater with such plays as
The Ringers
(1926) and
The Terror
(1927); as late as the 1950s, long after his death, Princess Margaret and Elsa Maxwell participated in a society staging for charity of
The Frog
, which had been adapted from Wallace's
The Fellowship of the Frog
(1925) by Ian Hay. Among Broadway productions, he is best remembered for
Criminal at Large
(a version of the stranglings at the Priory of
The Frightened Lady
of 1932) and
On the Spot
, a popular drama filmed as
Dangerous to Know
(1938). In this play, staged in London in 1930 and on Broadway in 1931, a gangster czar (closely resembling Al Capone) living in a Chicago penthouse is ultimately done in by his wronged Chinese mistress (Anna May Wong). Typically, Wallace wrote the play in four days. It made a star of Charles Laughton.

PROLOGUE

SOUTH OF FLORENCE BY some sixty miles, and west of Rome by almost thrice the distance, upon three hills, is Siena, the most equable of the cities of Tuscany.

On the Terzo di Città in I know not what
contrada
, is the Palazzo Festini.

It stands aloof in its gloomy and dilapidated magnificence, and since it dates from the adjacent Baptistery of S. Giovanni, it leaves the impression of being a crumbling and disgruntled fragment of the sacred edifice that has wandered away in sullen rage to decay at its leisure.

Here, in penurious grandeur, dwelt the Festinis, who claimed descent from none other than Guido Novello, of whom Compagni, the arch-apologist, wrote: “
Il conte Guido non aspettò il fine, ma senza dare colpo di spada si parti.
”
^*

The Festini was a family to the name of which the Italian nobility listened with immobile faces. And if you chose to praise them they would politely agree; or if you condemned them they would listen in silence; but if you questioned them as to their standing in the hierarchy, you might be sure that, from Rome to Milan, your inquiry would be met by an immediate, but even, change of subject.

The Festinis, whatever might be their relationship with Guido the Coward, effectively carried on the methods of the Polomei, the Salvani, the Ponzi, the Piccolomini, and the Forteguerri.

The vendettas of the middle ages were revived and sustained by these products of nineteenth century civilization, and old Salvani Festini had, as was notoriously evident, gone outside the circumscribed range of his own family grievances, and had allied himself, either actively or sympathetically, with every secret society that menaced the good government of Italy.

It was a hot June afternoon, in the year '99, when a man and two youths sat at their midday meal in the gloomy dining-room of the Palazzo.

The man who sat at the head of the table was, despite his age, a broad-shouldered man of apparent vitality; a leonine head surmounted by a mane of grey hair would have distinguished him without the full beard which fell over his black velvet waistcoat.

Yet, for all his patriarchal appearance, there was something in the seamed white face, in the cold eyes which stared from under his busy brows, which was sinister and menacing.

He ate in silence, scarcely troubling to answer the questions which were put to him.

The boy on his right was a beautiful lad of seventeen; he had the ivory complexion, the perfect, clean-cut, patrician features which characterized the Italian nobility. His lustrous brown eyes, his delicate mouth, his almost effeminate chin, testified for the race from which he sprang.

The young man sitting opposite was four years older. He was at the stage when youth was merging into manhood, with disastrous consequences to facial contours. He seemed thin, almost hollow-jawed, and only the steady quality of his grave eyes saved him from positive ugliness.

“But, father,” asked the younger lad, “what makes you think that the Government suspects that you know about the ‘Red Hand'?”

The older youth said nothing, but his inquiring eyes were fixed upon his father.

Salvani Festini brought his mind back to the present with a start.

“Eh?” he asked.

His voice was gruff, but not unkindly, as he addressed the boy; and the light of unconscious pride which shone in his eyes as he looked at the youth, softened the forbidding expression of his face.

“I am very well informed, my son,” he said with a gentle growl. “You know we have excellent information. The carbineers are pursuing their investigations, and that infernal friend of yours”—he turned to the elder son—“is at the head of the inquisitors.”

The youth addressed smiled.

“Who is this?” he asked innocently.

The old man shot a glance of suspicion at his son.

“Tillizini,” he said shortly. “The old fool—why doesn't he keep to his books and his lectures?”

“He has been very kind to me,” said the younger man. He spoke thoughtfully, reflectively. “I am sorry he has annoyed you, father; but it is his business—this investigation of crime.”

“Crime!” roared the old man. “How dare you, a son of mine, sitting at my own table, refer to the actions of the ‘Red Hand' as crime!”

His face went red with rage, and he cast a glance of malevolence at his heir which might well have shocked a more susceptible man.

But Antonio Festini was used to such exhibitions. He was neither embarrassed nor distressed by this fresh exhibition of his father's dislike. He knew, and did not resent, the favouritism shown to Simone, his brother. It did not make him love his brother less, nor dislike his father more.

Antonio Festini had many qualities which his countrymen do not usually possess. This phlegmatic, philosophical attitude of mind had been bred in him. Some remote ancestor, cool, daring, possibly with a touch of colder blood in his ancestry, had transmitted to this calm youth some of the power of detachment.

He knew his father hated the old professor of anthropology at Florence; for the Festinis, even to this day, preserved the spirit of antagonism which the Sienese of half a thousand years ago had adopted to the Florentine.

There were schools enough in Siena; a college most famous for its lawyers and its doctors.

Simone was graduating there, and what was good enough for Simone should surely be good enough for Antonio.

But the elder son had chosen Florence with that deliberation which had always been his peculiarity, even from his earliest childhood, and in face of all opposition, in defiance of all the Festini tradition, it was to Florence he went.

Tillizini, that remarkable scientist, had conceived a friendship for the boy; had taken him under his wing, and had trained him in his own weird, irregular, and inconsequent way.

Tillizini was a master of crime, and he possessed an encyclopaedic knowledge of men. He was at the beck and call of the secret police from one end of Italy to the other, and, so rumour said, was in receipt of retaining fees from the governments of other nations.

It was Tillizini who had set himself to work to track down the “Red Hand” which had terrorized the South of Italy for so many years, and had now extended its sphere of operations to the north.

And it was a hateful fact that his work had been crowned with success. His investigations had laid by the heels no less a person than the considerable Matteo degli Orsoni, the Roman lawyer, who, for so many years, had directed the operations of one of the most powerful sections of the “Red Hand.”

There was something like fear in the old man's breast, though he was too good a Festini to display it; and it was fear which leavened his rage.

“You shall hear a different tale of this Tillizini,” he growled, “mark you that, Antonio. Some day he will be found dead—a knife in his heart, or his throat cut, or a bullet wound in his head—who knows? The ‘Red Hand' is no amusing organization.” He looked long and keenly at his son. Simone leant over, his elbows on the table, his chin resting on his hands, and eyed his brother with dispassionate interest.

“What does Tillizini know of me?” asked the old man suddenly. “What have you told him?”

Antonio smiled.

“That is an absurd question, father,” he said; “you do not imagine that I should speak to Signor Tillizini of you?”

“Why not?” said the other gruffly. “Oh! I know your breed. There is something of your mother in you. Those Bonnichi would sell their wives for a hundred lira!”

Not even the reference to his mother aroused the young man to anger. He sat with his hands thrust into the pockets of his riding breeches, his head bent a little forward, looking at his father steadily, speculatively, curiously.

For a few minutes they stared at one another, and the boy on the other side of the table glanced from father to brother, from brother to father, eagerly.

At last the old man withdrew his eyes with a shrug, and Antonio leant across the table, and plucked two grapes from a big silver dish in the centre, with a hand to which neither annoyance nor fear contributed a tremor.

The old man turned to his favourite.

“You may expect the birri here to-day or to-morrow,” he said. “There will be a search for papers. A crowd of dirty Neapolitans will go rummaging through this house. I suppose you would like me to ask your friend, Tillizini, to stay to dinner?” he said, turning to the other with a little sneer.

“As to that, you must please yourself, father; I should be very delighted if you did.”

“By faith, you would,” snarled the old man. “If I had an assurance that the old dog would choke, I'd invite him. I know your Tillizini,” he said gratingly, “Paulo Tillizini.” He laughed, but there was no humour in his laughter.

Antonio rose from the table, folded his serviette into a square and placed it neatly between the two Venetian goblets which were in front of him.

“I have your permission to retire?” he said, with a ceremonious little bow.

A jerk of the head was the only answer.

With another little bow to his brother, the young man left the room. He walked through the flagged and gloomy hall to the ponderous door of the Palazzo.

A servant in faded livery opened the door, and he stepped out into the blinding sunlight. The heat struck up at him from the paved street as from a blast furnace.

He had no definite plans for spending the afternoon, but he was anxious to avoid any further conflict with his father; and though he himself did not approve of the association which his house had formed with the many desperate, guilty bands which tyrannized over Italy, yet he was anxious to think out a method by which the inevitable exposure and disgrace might be avoided.

There was no question of sentiment as far as he was concerned. He had reached the point where he had come to regard not only his father, but his younger brother, so eager to assist and so anxious for the day when he would be able to take an active part in the operations of the League, as people outside the range of his affections.

It was natural that he should gravitate towards the Piazza del Campo. All Siena moved naturally to this historic fan-like space, with its herring-boned brick pavement, and its imperishable association with the trials and triumphs of Siena.

He stood by the broad central pavement which marks the course of the Pallio, deep in thought, oblivious of the many curious glances which were thrown in his direction. For despite the heat of the day, all Siena was abroad.

Had he been less engrossed by his thoughts, he might have regarded it as curious that the Sienese, who hold this hour sacred to the siesta, should have so thronged the square and the street, on a hot June afternoon.

Standing there, absorbed by his thoughts, he heard his name spoken softly behind him, and turned.

He snatched off his soft felt hat with a smile, and extended his hand.

“I did not expect to see you, Signor Tillizini,” he said.

The pleasure of the meeting, however, was over-clouded a second later, as he realized with a sense of apprehension that the old professor's visit was not without gloomy significance to his house.

Professor Tillizini, at that time, was in his eightieth year. As straight as a die, his emaciated and aesthetic face was relieved by two burning eyes in which the soul of the man throbbed and lived.

He took the arm of his pupil and led him across the piazza at a slow pace.

“Antonio mio,” he said with grave affection, “I am come because the Government desires certain information. You know, although I have not told you, that we are inquiring into a certain organization.”

He laid his thin white hand upon the other's shoulder, and stopped, peering down into the boy's face with keen attention.

“Antonio,” he said slowly, “that investigation is to be directed toward your father and his actions.”

The other nodded. “I know,” he said simply.

“I am glad you know,” said Tillizini, with a little sigh of relief. “It has rather worried me. I wanted to tell you some time ago that such an inquiry was inevitable, but I did not think I would be doing my duty to the State if I gave that information.”

Antonio smiled a little sadly.

“It does not matter, Signor,” he said; “as a matter of fact, my father knows, and is expecting you.”

Tillizini nodded.

“That I expected too,” he said, “or rather let me be frank—I hoped he would be; for a policeman expected is a policeman defeated,” he smiled.

They walked a little way in silence, then—

“Are you satisfied in your mind that my father is concerned in all these outrages?” asked Antonio.

The old man looked at him sharply.

“Are you not also?” he asked.

The heir of the Festinis made no reply. As if by mutual consent they changed the subject and spoke of other matters.

The old man was awaiting the arrival of the police officers; that much Antonio guessed.

They spoke of the college at Florence and of mutual friends. Then, by easy stages, the professor approached his favourite subject—the subject of his life-work.

“It is a thousand pities, is it not?” he said, “that, having got so far, the good God will not give me another hundred years of life?”

He smiled and shrugged his shoulders.

“At the end of which time I should require another hundred,” he said philosophically. “It is as well, perhaps, that we cannot have our desires. “It would have satisfied me,” he continued, “had I a son to carry on my work. Here again I am denied. I have not, I admit,” he said, with that naiveté which was his charm, “even in my life provided myself with a wife. That was an oversight for which I am now being punished.”

He stopped as a tall officer in the uniform of the carbineers came swinging across the Piazza del Campo, and Antonio Festini instinctively stepped away from his master's side.

The two spoke together, and by and by, with a little nod of farewell and a fleeting shadow of pity in his eyes, Tillizini accompanied the tall officer in the direction of the Palazzo Festini.