“The police!” muttered Waldock dazedly.
“Even so—led by no less a personage than Inspector McIver. They had completely surrounded the house, and necessitated a slight change in my plans.”
“Where are they now?” cried Waldock.
“Ah! Where indeed? Let us trust at any rate in comfort.”
“By heaven!” said Zaboleff, taking a step forward. “As I asked you before—who are you?”
“And as I told you before, Zaboleff, a collector of specimens. Some I keep; some I let go—as you have already seen.”
“And what are you going to do with me?”
“Keep you. Up to date you are the cream of my collection.”
“Are you working with the police?” said the other dazedly.
“Until tonight we have not clashed. Even tonight, well, I think we are working towards the same end. And do you know what that end is, Zaboleff?” The deep voice grew a little sterner. “It is the utter, final overthrow of you and all that you stand for. To achieve that object we shall show no mercy. Even as you are working in the dark—so are we. Already you are frightened; already we have proved that you fear the unknown more than you fear the police; already the first few tricks are ours. But you still hold the ace, Zaboleff—or shall we say the King of Trumps? And when we catch him you will cease to be the cream of my collection. This leader of yours—it was what Petrovitch told him, I suppose, that made him send you over.”
“I refuse to say,” said the other.
“You needn’t; it is obvious. And now that you are caught—he will come himself. Perhaps not at once—but he will come. And then…But we waste time. The money, Zaboleff.”
“I have no money,” he snarled.
“You lie, Zaboleff. You lie clumsily. You have quite a lot of money brought over for Waldock so that he might carry on the good work after you had sailed tomorrow. Quick, please; time passes.”
With a curse Zaboleff produced a small canvas bag and held it out. The other took it and glanced inside.
“I see,” he said gravely. “Pearls and precious stones. Belonging once, I suppose, to a murdered gentlewoman whose only crime was that she, through no action of her own, was born in a different sphere from you. And, you reptile “—his voice rose a little—”you would do that here.”
Zaboleff shrank back, and the other laughed contemptuously. “Search him—and Waldock too.”
Two men stepped forward quickly. “Nothing more,” they said after a while. “Except this piece of paper.”
There was a sudden movement on Zaboleff’s part—instantly suppressed, but not quite soon enough.
“Injudicious,” said the leader quietly. “Memory is better. An address, I see—No. 5, Green Street, Hoxton. A salubrious neighbourhood, with which I am but indifferently acquainted. Ah! I see my violent friend has recovered.” He glanced at Flash Jim, who was sitting up dazedly, rubbing the back of his head. “Number 4—the usual.”
There was a slight struggle, and Flash Jim lay back peacefully unconscious, while a faint smell of chloroform filled the room.
“And now I think we will go. A most successful evening.”
“What are you going to do with me, you scoundrel?” spluttered Waldock. “I warn you that I have influential friends, who—who will ask questions in—in Parliament if you do anything to me; who will go to Scotland Yard.”
“I can assure you, Mr. Waldock, that I will make it my personal business to see that their natural curiosity is gratified,” answered the leader suavely. “But for the present I fear the three filthy rags you edit will have to be content with the office boy as their guiding light. And I venture to think they will not suffer.”
He made a sudden sign, and before they realised what was happening the two men were caught from behind and gagged. The next instant they were rushed through the door, followed by Flash Jim. For a moment or two the eyes of the leader wandered round the now empty room taking in every detail: then he stepped forward and blew out the two candles. The door closed gently behind him, and a couple of minutes later two cars stole quietly away from the broken-down gate along the cart track. It was just midnight, behind them the gloomy house stood up gaunt and forbidding against the darkness of the night sky. And it was not until the leading car turned carefully into the main road that anyone spoke.
“Deuced awkward, the police being there.”
The big man who was driving grunted thoughtfully. “Perhaps,” he returned. “Perhaps not. Anyway, the more the merrier. Flash Jim all right?”
“Sleeping like a child,” answered the other, peering into the body of the car.
For about ten miles they drove on in silence: then at a main cross-roads the car pulled up and the big man got out. The second car was just behind, and for a few moments there was a whispered conversation between him and the other driver. He glanced at Zaboleff and Waldock, who appeared to be peacefully sleeping on the back seat, and smiled grimly.
“Good night, old man. Report as usual.”
“Right,” answered the driver. “So long.”
The second car swung right-handed and started northwards, while the leader stood watching the vanishing tail lamp. Then he returned to his own seat, and soon the first beginnings of outer London were reached. And it was as they reached Whitechapel that the leader spoke again with a note of suppressed excitement in his voice.
“We’re worrying ’em; we’re worrying ’em badly. Otherwise they’d never have sent Zaboleff. He was too big a man to risk, considering the police.”
“It’s the police that I am considering,” said his companion.
The big man laughed.
“Leave that to me, old man, leave that entirely to me.”
CHAPTER II
In Which Scotland Yard Sits Up and Takes Notice
Sir Bryan Johnstone leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling with a frown. His hands were thrust deep into his trouser pockets; his long legs were stretched out to their full extent under the big roll-top desk in front of him. From the next room came the monotonous tapping of a typewriter, and after a while Sir Bryan closed his eyes.
Through the open window there came the murmur of the London traffic—that soothing sound so conducive to sleep in those who have lunched well. But that did not apply to the man lying back in his chair. Sir Bryan’s lunch was always a frugal meal, and it was no desire for sleep that made the Director of Criminal Investigation close his eyes. He was puzzled, and the report lying on the desk in front of him was the reason.
For perhaps ten minutes he remained motionless, then he leaned forward and touched an electric bell. Instantly the typewriter ceased, and a girl secretary came quickly into the room.
“Miss Forbes,” said Sir Bryan, “I wish you would find out if Chief Inspector McIver is in the building. If so, I would like to see him at once; if not, see that he gets the message as soon as he comes in.”
The door closed behind the girl, and after a moment or two the man rose from his desk and began to pace up and down the room with long, even strides. Every now and then he would stop and stare at some print on the wall, but it was the blank stare of a man whose mind is engrossed in other matters.
And once while he stood looking out of the window, he voiced his thoughts, unconscious that he spoke aloud. “Dash it, McIver’s not fanciful. He’s the least fanciful man we’ve got. And yet…”
His eyes came round to the desk once more, the desk on which the report was lying. It was Inspector