The Fourth Plague (5 page)

III. —A HUNTER OF MEN

IT SEEMED TO MARJORIE that Vera shrank back at the name.

The girl waited for her to go forward and greet the newcomer, but as she made no move Marjorie realized that she was called upon, even now, to perform the duties of hostess.

The man in the doorway was tall; he looked taller, perhaps, because of his slimness. He was clad from head to foot in black, and the big flowing tie at his neck was of the same sober hue. He carried in his hand a black soft felt hat, from which the butler had made several ineffectual attempts to detach him.

His face was long and thin, sallow and lined; his eyes were big and grey, and steady. They were terribly alive and expressive, Marjorie thought. They gave the impression that the whole process of life was comprehended in their depths. His hair was black and was brushed smoothly behind his ears. He was neither handsome nor ugly. His face was an unusual one, attractive, because of its very character and strength. The mouth was big and sensitive; the ungloved hands were long and white, and as delicate as a surgeon's.

He gave a quick glance from one to the other.

“I am so sorry to intrude upon you,” he said. There was no trace of any foreign accent in his voice. “I expected to find Sir Ralph. He is out—yes?”

He had a quick, alert method of talking. He was eager to the point of anticipating the reply. Before the girl could answer he had gone on.

“He has kindly asked me to dine to-night. I am so sorry I cannot. I must be back in London in an hour or two. There are one or two interviews of importance which I have arranged.”

His smile was a dazzling one; it lit up the whole of his face, and changed him from a somewhat morose, funereal figure, to a new and radiant being.

Marjorie noticed that he was almost handsome in his amusement. The smile came and went like a gleam of sunshine seen through a rift of storm-cloud.

“You are Miss Marjorie Meagh,” he said, “and you, madam,” with a little bow, “are Lady Morte-Mannery.” His head twisted for a moment inquiringly. That, and the bow, were the only little signs he gave of his continental origin.

Vera forced a smile to her face. She came forward, a little embarrassed. She had hoped to escape without an introduction and to have developed a convenient headache to keep out of his way.

“I saw you in court,” said Tillizini, quickly. “It was an interesting case, was it not? That poor man!”

He threw out his arms with a gesture of pity.

“I do not know why you sympathize with him,” said Vera.

“Seven years!” Tillizini shook his head. “It is a long time, Madam, for a man—innocent.”

Again the little shrug. The tall man paced the room nervously.

“You have heard his story. He said that he came to this house to meet an individual who would give him a packet.”

“But surely you do not believe that?” said the other, with amused contempt.

“Yes, I believe that,” said Tillizini, calmly and gravely. “Why should I not? The man's every attitude, every word, spoke eloquently to me, of his sincerity.”

“Do you believe, then, in this mysterious Italian?” said Vera.

“Oh, Vera, don't you remember?” Marjorie broke in suddenly, and with some excitement, “there was an Italian in the town. We saw him the day before the robbery. Don't you remember?” she asked again. “A very short man, with a long Inverness cape which reached to his heels. We passed him in the car on the Breckley road, and I remarked to you that he was either an Italian or a Spaniard because of the peculiar way he was holding his cigarette.”

“Ah, yes!”

It was Tillizini, tremendously vital, all a-quiver like some delicately strung zither whose strings had been set vibrating by a musician's hand.

“He was short and stout, and was dressed in black,” said the girl.

“A moustache—no?” said Tillizini.

The girl shook her head.

“He was clean-shaven.”

“You were going the same direction—yes?”

Again the girl nodded, with a smile at the man's eager question.

“And did he turn his face towards you or from you? From you?”

Again the girl nodded.

“He did not want you to see his face?” Tillizini himself shook his head in answer.

“What rubbish, Marjorie!” broke in Vera, petulantly. “I don't remember anything of the sort. There are always organ-grinders with monkeys and things of that sort coming through the village, or ice-cream people who come down from Chatham. You are letting your imagination run away with you.” Marjorie was amazed. She remembered now the incident most distinctly. She had spoken of it to Vera in the evening, at dinner. It was amazing that she herself had forgotten it until this moment.

“But you must remember,” she said.

“I don't remember,” answered the other shortly. “Besides, you are very wrong to give Mr. Tillizini a false clue. There can be no doubt that this man, Mansingham, burgled the house for no other reason than to steal Sir Ralph's collection.”

“Instigated by the Italian,” said Tillizini. “Oh, you English people,” he said, with a despairing shrug, “I am desolated when I speak with you. You have such a fear of melodrama. You are so insistent upon the fact that the obvious must be the only possible explanation!”

He shook his head again in humorous resignation. From any other man the outburst might have sounded as a piece of unpardonable impertinence. But Tillizini had the extraordinary gift of creating an atmosphere of old-established friendship. Even Vera, frankly antagonistic, had a vague sense of having discussed this matter before in identical terms with the man who spoke so disparagingly of her compatriots.

He looked at his watch.

“I must see Sir Ralph before I go back. Where shall I find him?”

Vera had a shrewd idea that at that moment Sir Ralph was engaged in a heated interview with the offending butcher who had put a halfpenny upon the price of beef, but she did not think it fair to her husband, or consonant with her own dignity, to admit as much.

“He'll return very soon,” she said.

He looked at her sharply, for no reason as far as she could see. There had been nothing in her tone to justify the look of quick interest which came to his face.

“I have met you before somewhere, Lady Morte-Mannery,” he said quickly, “and it is very unusual for me that I cannot for the moment recall the circumstance.”

“Really?” said Vera, in a tone which suggested that she had no interest in the matter, “one does have these queer impressions—you'll excuse me now, won't you, doctor,” she said, “I have got rather a bad headache and I thought of lying down. Miss Meagh will entertain you till Sir Ralph returns.”

He stepped quickly to the door and opened it for her, and favoured her with a little bow as she passed. Then he closed the door and walked slowly back to Marjorie.

“Where, where, where?” he said, tapping his chin and looking solemnly at the girl.

She laughed.

“You must not confuse me with the Oracle,” she said. “You know, doctor, we ask such questions of you.”

Again that beautiful smile of his illuminated the sombre countenance.

“I was asking this Oracle,” he said, tapping his breast. “And now I remember. There was a raid on a gambling house. It was run by one of my compatriots, and I was in court.”

“I hope you will forget that, Doctor Tillizini,” said Marjorie, quietly. “Lady Morte-Mannery may have been very foolish to have been found in such a place, but it would not be kind to remember—”

She stopped when she saw the look of astonishment on the other's face.

“My dear lady,” he said, with his winning smile, “you do not suggest that Lady Morte-Mannery was in any way complicated? It would be wicked, it would be absurd, it would be villainous,” he said extravagantly, “to associate such a lady with so sordid a business.”

“This was a very commonplace raid,” he went on, “they were mostly Italians engaged, and mostly people of very low origin, and my interest in the case was merely the hope of identifying some of the participants as gentlemen who had another interest for me. Lady Mannery was in court, certainly, but she was in court as the guest of the magistrate, Mr. Curtain, the Metropolitan Police Magistrate, who, I think, is some relation of Sir Ralph.” This was so, as Marjorie knew. Then why had Vera lied to her? She understood how easy it was for her to make up the story; but why give that as an excuse for not wanting to meet Tillizini?

“There is Sir Ralph,” she said suddenly. She had seen the car go past the window. “Do you mind staying here alone, while I go and tell him you are here?”

He opened the door for her, with his quaint little bow. She met Sir Ralph in the hall, and explained the fact that the visitor was waiting.

“Where is Vera?” he asked.

“She has gone to lie down,” said Marjorie, “she has a very bad headache.”

Sir Ralph swore under his breath.

It was her main weapon of defence—that headache. A convenient, but, to his mind, grossly unfair method of evading her responsibilities. He was more incensed now because he felt that not only had she failed to do the honours of his house towards a man for whose position he had an immense respect, but she had escaped from the just consequence of her carelessness. He had discovered that it was entirely due to her that the extra halfpenny had been put upon beef. She had acquiesced to the imposition in a letter which the butcher had triumphantly produced to vindicate his character.

He was, therefore, at the disadvantage which every man must be, half of whose mind is occupied by a private grievance, when he met Tillizini.

The two men went off to the library for about a quarter of an hour.

At the end of that time they returned to the drawing-room—Tillizini to take his leave of the girl—and Sir Ralph to see him to his waiting fly.

Marjorie saw that the Chairman of the Burboro' Sessions was considerably ruffled. His face was red, his thin grey hair untidy—ever a sign of perturbation. He was, too, a little stiff with his guest.

As for Tillizini, he was the same imperturbable, cool, masterful man. Yes, that was the word which Marjorie sought. This man was masterful to an extent which she could not divine.

“Some day I shall meet you again,” said Tillizini, as he took the girl's hand in his own. She was surprised at the strength of his grip. “I would not go so soon, but Sir Ralph has kindly given me permission to see this man, Mansingham, who was convicted to-day.”

“I think your labours are entirely misdirected, Professor,” said Sir Ralph, gruffly. “You will learn nothing from him but a pack of lies.”

“Ah, but lies!” said Tillizini, with an ecstatic gesture. “They are so interesting, Sir Ralph, so much more interesting than the commonplace truth, and so much more informative.”

The elder man, who prided himself in post-prandial speeches upon being a plain, blunt Englishman, and inferentially typical of all that was best in an Englishman, had no mind for paradoxes. He grunted unsympathetically.

“You are an Italian,” he said. “I suppose these things amuse you. But here in England we believe in the obvious. It saves a lot of trouble and it is generally accurate. You know,” he said testily, “these stories of mysterious organizations are all very well for novels. I admit that in your country you have the Camorra, and the possession of that factor probably unbalances your judgment; but I assure you “—he laid his hands with heavy and paternal solicitude upon the younger man's shoulder—“nothing of that sort.”

They were standing by the window; the dusk was beginning to fall, and the gas had not yet been lit. He got so far, when of a sudden a pane of glass, on a level with Tillizini's head, splintered with a crash. It seemed to splinter three times in rapid succession, and simultaneously from without came a thick staccato “
Crack! crack! crack!
”

IV. —THE “RED HAND” DRAW BLANK

SIR RALPH FELT THE whiz of bullets as they passed him, heard the smash of the picture they struck on the opposite wall, and jumped back, white and shaking. Tillizini reached out his hand and thrust the girl back to cover with one motion.

In an instant he was down on his knees, crawling quickly to the window. He reached up his hands, threw up the sash, and leant out suddenly. For a second he stood thus, and then a jet of flame leapt from his hand, and they were deafened with the report of his Browning. Again he fired, and waited. Then he turned, and came back to them, a beatific smile illuminating his face.

“You were saying,” he said calmly, “that these things do not happen in England?”

His voice was even and unshaken. The hand that raised a spotless white handkerchief to wipe a streak of blood from his forehead, did not tremble.

“What happened?” asked Sir Ralph, in agitation. “It must have been a poacher or something. Those beggars hate me!”

“Poachers do not use Mauser pistols,” said Tillizini quietly. “If you take the trouble to dig out the bullets from your wall, which I am afraid is somewhat damaged, you will discover that they bear no resemblance whatever to the pellets which, I understand, filled the cartridges of your friends. No,” he smiled, “those shots were not intended for you, Sir Ralph. They were very much intended for me.”

He looked wistfully out of the window.

“I'm afraid I didn't hit him,” he said. “I saw him fairly distinctly as he made his way through the trees.”

“Who was it?” asked Sir Ralph anxiously.

Tillizini looked at him with an expression of slyness.

“Who was it?” he answered, deliberately. “I think it was the Italian who sent William Mansingham to your house to receive a packet.”

“But from whom?” asked Sir Ralph.

“That we shall know some day,” replied the other, evasively.

Sir Ralph went down to the railway station to meet Tillizini and to see him off. He was consumed with curiosity as to the result of the interview which he had granted the detective.

Whether he had the right of instructing the warders of the local gaol to admit Tillizini was a moot point; but since the Italian had such extraordinarily wide powers deputed to him by the Home Office, it was probable that the interview would have taken place even without Sir Ralph's permission.

The Chairman had hinted that it would be graceful, if not decent, for Tillizini to see the prisoner in his presence, but the Italian had artistically overlooked the suggestion.

It was five minutes before the train left that Tillizini sprang out of the fly which brought him to the station entrance. He was smoking a long, thin cigar, and was, as Sir Ralph judged, tremendously pleased with himself, for between his clenched teeth he hummed a little tune as he strode through the booking-hall on to the platform.

“Well?” asked the Chairman, curiously, “what had our friend to say for himself?”

“Nothing that you do not know,” replied the other, brightly. “He merely repeated the story that he told in the dock about my mysterious fellow-countryman. He gave me one or two details, which were more interesting to me than they would be to you.”

“Such as?” suggested Sir Ralph.

“Well,” Tillizini hesitated. “He told me that his instructor had informed him that the packet would be small enough to put in his waistcoat pocket.”

Sir Ralph smiled sarcastically.

“There are a dozen objects in my collection which might be carried in a man's waistcoat pocket. No!” he corrected himself, “there are at least fifty. By the way,” he said suddenly, “you've never asked to see my collection.”

Tillizini shook his head vigorously, amusement in his eyes.

“That would be unnecessary,” he said. “I know every article you have, Sir Ralph, its size, its origin, almost the price you paid for it.”

Sir Ralph turned to him in surprise.

“But how?” he asked wonderingly. “I have only my private catalogue, and no copy exists outside my house.”

“Very good,” said Tillizini. “Let me enumerate them.”

He told them off on his hands, finger by finger.

“Number 1, an Egyptian locket from the Calliciti collection—gold, studded with uncut rubies—value, £420. Number 2, a plaque of Tanagra ware, rather an unusual specimen in a frame of soft gold, inscribed with Syrian mottoes. Number 3, a crystal medallion, taken by Napoleon from Naples, on the inverse side a bust of Beatrice D'Este, on the reverse side Il Moro, the Duke of Milan, value—by the way, I didn't give you the previous value because I don't know it—£600. Number 4, a Venetian charm in the shape of a harp—”

“But,” gasped Sir Ralph, “these facts, regarding my collection are only known to me.”

“They are also known to me,” said the other.

The train had come in as they were speaking. Tillizini walked towards an empty carriage, and entered it. He closed the door behind him, and leant out of the window.

“There are many things to be learnt, and this is not the least of them,” he said. “Between the man with the secret, and the man who knows that secret, there are intermediaries who have surprised the first and informed the second.”

Sir Ralph was puzzling this out when the train drew out of the station, and its tail lights vanished through the tunnel which penetrates Burboro' Hill.

Left to himself, Tillizini locked both doors and pulled down all the blinds of his carriage. He had no doubt as to the sinister intentions of the man or men who had dogged his footsteps so persistently since he had left London. If he was to be killed, he decided that it should not be by a shot fired by a man from the footboard.

It was a fast train from Burboro' to London, and the first stop would be at London Bridge. He took the central seat of the carriage, put his feet up upon the opposite cushions, laid his Browning pistol on the seat beside him, and composed himself to read. He had half a dozen London papers in the satchel which was his inseparable companion.

One of these he had systematically exhausted on the journey down; he now turned his attention to another. His scrutiny was concentrated upon the advertisement columns. He did not bother with the agonies, because he knew that no up-to-date criminal would employ such method of communication.

One by one he examined the prosaic announcements under the heading “Domestic Servants Wanted.” He reached the end without discovering anything exciting. He laid the paper down and took up another.

Half-way down the “Domestic Wants” column his eye was arrested by a notice. To the ordinary reader it was the commonplace requirement of an average housewife. It ran:—

“Cook-General; Italian cooking preferred. Four in family. Fridays; not Thursdays as previously announced. State amount willing to give.”

The address was an advertising agency in the City. He read it again; took a little penknife from his waistcoat pocket, and carefully cut it from the paper.

There were many peculiarities about that announcement. There was a certain egotism in the “Fridays, not Thursdays as previously announced,” which was unusual in this type of advertisement. Who cared whether it was Thursday or Friday that had been previously given, presumably, as the evening “out”?

But the glaring error in the advertisement lay in the last paragraph. The average advertiser would be more anxious to know what wages the newcomer would require, and would most certainly never suggest that the “Cook-General” whose services were sought, should contribute, in addition to her labour, anything in the nature of payment for the privilege.”

Tillizini looked up at the roof of the carriage in thought. To-day was Monday. Something had been arranged for Thursday. It had been postponed till the following day. For that something a price was to be paid, possibly an advance on the original price agreed upon was demanded. The advertiser would hardly undertake to perform the service without some previous agreement as to price.

He did not in any way associate the announcement with the recent events at Highlawn; they were but part of the big game which was being played. The emissaries of that terrible society whose machinations he had set himself to frustrate were no doubt travelling by the same train. He was so used to this espionage that he ignored it, without despising it. He was ever prepared for the move, inevitable as it seemed to him, which would be made against his life and against his security.

It was too much to expect that the “Red Hand” would forgive him the work he had accomplished in America. He had cleared the United States from the greatest scourge of modern times.

It was no fault of his that they had taken advantage of the lax emigration laws of England to settle in the Metropolis.

He replaced the papers in his satchel, and just before the train ran into London Bridge he let up the spring blinds of the compartment. It was dark, and wet, and miserable. He made no attempt to alight at the station. It was not a safe place, as he knew by experience, for a threatened man to end his journey.

There were dark tunnels which led to the main entrance of the station—tunnels in which a man might be done to death, if by chance he were the only passenger negotiating the exit; and no one would be any the wiser for five minutes or so, sufficient time, that, to allow these professional murderers to escape.

Outside Waterloo he pulled the blinds down again. He did these things automatically, without any fear. He took the same precaution as the everyday citizen takes in crossing the road. He looked from left to right before crossing this dangerous highway of his.

Flush with the railway bridge which crosses the river to Charing Cross station is a footpath, Old Hungerford footbridge.

Three men were waiting there at intervals that wet and blusterous night to watch the Burboro' train come in. They saw it from a position which enabled them, had the opportunity presented, of shooting into the carriage.

Tillizini did not know this, but he could guess it. It was not an unlikely contingency.

On the crowded station of Charing Cross he was safe enough. Moreover, there were two men, who had spent the afternoon unostentatiously wandering about the station, who picked him up as he came through the barrier.

He gave one of them a little nod, which none but the keenest observer would have noticed.

The two Scotland Yard men, whose duty it was to shadow him in London, walked closely behind him, and remained upon the pavement outside until he had entered the waiting electric brougham.