The Rogues’ Syndicate: The Maelstrom. Frank Froest
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Название: The Rogues’ Syndicate: The Maelstrom
Автор: Frank Froest
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Полицейские детективы
isbn: 9780008137724
isbn:
Menzies went away with his bundle of documents to have them typed, indexed, and put in order, so that he could lay his hand on any one needed at a moment’s notice. He was in for a busy day.
Two advertisements he drafted in the sanctuary of his own office. One was to check Hallett’s own account of the evening before, and to identify, if possible, the street in which the cheques had been forced on him.
‘£1 REWARD. The taxi-cab driver who, on the evening of —, drove a fare from the West End to 34, Linstone Terrace Gardens, Kensington, will receive the above reward on communicating with the Public Carriage Office, New Scotland Yard, S.W.’
The other ran differently, and seemed to give him more trouble. Several sheets of notepaper he wasted, and discontentedly surveyed his final effort.
‘If James Errol, last heard of at Columbus, Ohio, U.S.A., will communicate—’
He crushed the sheet up, flung it in the waste-paper basket, and lifted a speaking-tube.
‘Any newspaper men there, Green? Right! Tell ’em I’ll see ’em in half an hour. Send me up a typist.’
The newspaper Press, if deftly handled, may be a potent factor in the detection of crime. Moreover, the ubiquitous reporter is not to be evaded for long by the cleverest detective living. The wisest course is to meet him with fair words—to guide his pen where there is a danger of his writing too much, and put him on his honour on occasion. Many a promising case has been spoilt by tactless treatment of a pressman at a wrong moment.
Menzies dictated an account of the murder in which he said just as much as he wanted to say and not a word more. The conclusion ran:
‘The stepson of the deceased gentleman, a Mr James Errol, left England for the United States many years ago, and his present whereabouts are unknown. The police are anxious to get into touch with him in order that certain points in connection with his father’s career should be cleared up.’
The chief detective-inspector knew that the simple paragraph would throw into the search for Errol the energies and organisation of every great newspaper—an aid he did not despise. It was not intended as an official statement. The Criminal Investigation Department does not issue bulletins officially. It was an act of courtesy, and incidentally a stroke of policy, to maintain the goodwill of the Press. The reporters might paraphrase it as they would.
He received the newspaper men pleasantly, parried their chaff and too adroit questions with unruffled good humour, and told them little anecdotes which had not the slightest bearing on the murder of Greye-Stratton. They read the typewritten sheets he handed them greedily, and cross-examined him as mercilessly as he had ever been cross-examined at the Old Bailey. A clerk brought a card to him, and he read it without a change of countenance.
‘In a minute,’ he said to the waiting clerk, and put the card in his waistcoat pocket. ‘Well, gentlemen, you know as much as I do now. If there’s anything else you want to know, just drop in and see me when you like. Good-morning.’
They accepted their dismissal, and he took another glance at the card.
‘Miss Lucy Olney,’ he read, and underneath written in pencil, ‘Peggy Greye-Stratton.’
THE early evening papers were on the streets before Jimmie Hallett rose, and the inevitable reporters had established a blockade of his hotel. He cursed them while he shaved. It seemed that the notoriety which he had left New York to escape had followed him to England. As an old newspaper hand himself, he had little taste to be served up again all hot and spiced for the delectation of a morbidly hungry public.
He surveyed a salver full of cards that had been brought up to him with a scowl. Vivid recollections came to him of the way in which he had himself dealt in ‘personal sketches’ and ‘personal statements’ on big ‘stories’, and he began to conceive a certain fellow-feeling for his long-forgotten victims. But his chin grew dogged.
‘I’ll see ’em in blazes before I’ll talk. Go away and tell ’em I’m dead.’
The liveried functionary who had brought the cards gave as near an approach to a grin as his dignity permitted.
‘Yes, sir,’ he said quietly; ‘they’ll not believe it, sir.’
Hallett swung his eyes sideways to the man, and his hand slipped to his trousers pocket. It was no use getting angry.
‘Say, what are you getting out of this, sonny?’ he demanded. ‘It’s all right. You needn’t answer.’ A banknote crackled between his fingers. ‘If you can clear out the gang below this is yours. It’s more than they’ll give you.’
‘Very good, sir. There’ll be no harm in telling them you’re in a very critical condition, sir, I suppose?’
‘Not in the least. If they’re the least bit human they won’t worry a dying man. It will stave them off for a while perhaps.’
As a matter of fact, beyond a mild headache and some stiffness, he felt scarcely a trace of the attentions of his overnight assailant. He was uncertain whether that was a tribute to the skill of the divisional surgeon or to the hardness of his skull. He inwardly congratulated himself that the injury was not a particularly noticeable disfigurement. Indeed, a skilful brushing of the hair almost hid it.
He descended to breakfast with an appetite that in itself was proof that his general health remained unaffected, and discovering that there was a back entrance to the hotel, decided to make use of it, lest some pertinacious reporter might still be lingering in the reception-hall. He wanted to know something of what the police were doing, and a visit to Scotland Yard seemed the best way of finding out. In the background of his thoughts there was perhaps less concern that a murderer should be brought to justice than curiosity in regard to the lady of the fog.
There is a way mostly used by tradesmen at the Palatial Hotel, which leads through a narrow alley for fifty yards on to the embankment. Through this Hallett sauntered. He was half way through when a tap on the shoulder caused him to wheel. He confronted a slim-built, sallow-faced man, of lank moustache and burning black eyes.
‘Pardon,’ he said. ‘Your name is Hallett?’
He spoke silkily, and the extremely correct pronunciation of his words showed that he was neither English nor American.
‘Well?’ demanded Hallett, shortly.
He feared that he had been run down by a reporter, after all.
‘You were at the place where this man was killed yesterday, eh?’ The man shook a newspaper under his face.
‘Well?’ said Hallett again.
He had resumed his walk, but the other was keeping pace with him.
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