THE COMPLETE FOUR JUST MEN SERIES (6 Detective Thrillers in One Edition). Edgar Wallace

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      Then followed perhaps the most extraordinary duels that the world had ever seen. Two powerful bodies, both outside the pale of the law, fought rapidly, mercilessly, asking no quarter and giving none. And the eerie thing about it all was, that no man saw the agents of either of the combatants. It was as though two spirit forces were engaged in some titanic combat. The police were almost helpless. The fight against the Red Hundred was carried on, almost single-handedly, by the Four Just Men, or, to give them the title with which they signed their famous proclamation, ‘The Council of Justice’…

      Since the days of the Fenian scare, London had never lived under the terror that the Red Hundred inspired. Never a day passed but preparations for some outrage were discovered, the most appalling of which was the attempt on the Tube Railway. If I refer to them as ‘attempts’, and if the repetition of that word wearies the reader, it is because, thanks to the extraordinary vigilance of the Council of Justice, they were no more.

      ‘This sort of thing cannot go on,’ said the Home Secretary petulantly at a meeting of the heads of the police. ‘Here we have admittedly the finest police force in the world, and we must needs be under obligation to men for whom warrants exist on a charge of murder!’

      The chief commissioner was sufficiently harassed, and was inclined to resent the criticism in the minister’s voice.

      ‘We’ve done everything that can be done, sir,’ he said shortly; ‘if you think my resignation would help you out of the difficulty — —’

      ‘Now for heaven’s sake, don’t be a fool,’ pleaded the Home Secretary, in his best unparliamentary manner. ‘Cannot you see —— —’

      ‘I can see that no harm has been done so far,’ said the commissioner doggedly; then he burst forth:

      ‘Look here, sir! our people have very often to employ characters a jolly sight worse than the Four Just Men — if we don’t employ them we exploit them. Mean little sneak-thieves, “narks” they call ‘em, old lags, burglars — and once or twice something worse. We are here to protect the public; so long as the public is being protected, nobody can kick—’

      ‘But it is not you who are protecting the public — you get your information —

      ‘From the Council of Justice, that is so; but where it comes from doesn’t matter. Now, listen to me, sir.’

      He was very earnest and emphasized his remarks with little raps on the desk.

      ‘Get the Prince of the Escorial out of the country,’ he said seriously. ‘I’ve got information that the Reds are after his blood. No, I haven’t been warned by the Just Men, that’s the queer part about it. I’ve got it straight from a man who’s selling me information. I shall see him tonight if they haven’t butchered him.’

      ‘But the Prince is our guest.’

      ‘He’s been here too long,’ said the practical and unsentimental commissioner; ‘let him go back to Spain — he’s to be married in a month; let him go home and buy his trousseau or whatever he buys.’

      ‘Is that a confession that you cannot safeguard him?’

      The commissioner looked vexed.

      ‘I could safeguard a child of six or a staid gentleman of sixty, but I cannot be responsible for a young man who insists on seeing London without a guide, who takes solitary motorcar drives, and refuses to give us any information beforehand as to his plans for the day — or if he does, breaks them!’

      The minister was pacing the apartment with his head bent in thought.

      ‘As to the Prince of the Escorial,’ he said presently, ‘advice has already been conveyed to his Highness — from the highest quarter — to make his departure at an early date. Tonight, indeed, is his last night in London.’

      The Commissioner of Police made an extravagant demonstration of relief.

      ‘He’s going to the Auditorium tonight,’ he said, rising. He spoke a little pityingly, and, indeed, the Auditorium, although a very first-class music hall, had a slight reputation. ‘I shall have a dozen men in the house and we’ll have his motorcar at the stage door at the end of the show.’

      That night his Highness arrived promptly at eight o’clock and stood chatting pleasantly with the bareheaded manager in the vestibule. Then he went alone to his box and sat down in the shadow of the red velvet curtain.

      Punctually at eight there arrived two other gentlemen, also in evening dress. Antonio Selleni was one and Karl Ollmanns was the other. They were both young men, and before they left the motorcar they completed their arrangement.

      ‘You will occupy the box on the opposite side, but I will endeavour to enter the box. If I succeed — it will be finished. The knife is best,’ there was pride in the Italian’s tone.

      ‘If I cannot reach him the honour will be yours.’ He had the stilted manner of the young Latin. The other man grunted. He replied in halting French.

      ‘Once I shot an egg from between fingers — so,’ he said.

      They made their entry separately.

      In the manager’s office, Superintendent Falmouth relieved the tedium of waiting by reading the advertisements in an evening newspaper.

      To him came the manager with a message that under no circumstances was his Highness in Box A to be disturbed until the conclusion of the performance.

      In the meantime Signor Selleni made a cautious way to Box A. He found the road clear, turned the handle softly, and stepped quickly into the dark interior of the box.

      Twenty minutes later Falmouth stood at the back of the dress circle issuing instructions to a subordinate.

      ‘Have a couple of men at the stage door — my God!’

      Over the soft music, above the hum of voices, a shot rang out and a woman screamed. From the box opposite the Prince’s a thin swirl of smoke floated.

      Karl Ollmanns, tired of waiting, had fired at the motionless figure sitting in the shadow of the curtain. Then he walked calmly out of the box into the arms of two breathless detectives.

      ‘A doctor!’ shouted Falmouth as he ran. The door of the Box A was locked, but he broke it open.

      A man lay on the floor of the box very still and strangely stiff.

      ‘Why, what — !’ began the detective, for the dead man was bound hand and foot.

      There was already a crowed at the door of the box, and he heard an authoritative voice demand admittance.

      He looked over his shoulder to meet the eye of the commissioner.

      ‘They’ve killed him, sir,’ he said bitterly.

      ‘Whom?’ asked the commissioner in perplexity.

      ‘His Highness.’

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