The Rogues’ Syndicate: The Maelstrom - Frank Froest

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      ‘Have you looked for the name of the tailor on his clothes—the brace buttons, the inside of the breast-pocket, the trousers band?’ demanded Menzies.

      ‘Of course, sir,’ said Royal. He was a trifle offended that it should even be thought that he had neglected so elementary a precaution. ‘There’s nothing—nothing at all.’

      Preceded by a uniformed inspector, they went down to the cells. Smith looked up sullenly from the bench on which he was seated, and met Menzies’ gaze squarely.

      The detective chief was no believer in Lombroso’s theories of physiognomy, but he studied the face intently. In point of fact, he was analysing the features to discover if he had seen the man before. He wanted, too, to get some clue as to the manner he should adopt—authoritative and official, or familiary and persuasion.

      ‘Well, sonny,’ he said gently, ‘you’ve tumbled into a mess. Attempted murder is a serious business in this country.’

      Smith glanced at him blackly over his shoulder. Menzies went on:

      ‘Of course, we don’t believe the cock-and-bull story you told Mr Hallett of there being a gang of you—’

      ‘You don’t, eh?’ exclaimed the prisoner, wheeling in sudden passion to face his visitors. ‘Then you are—what shall I say?—wooden blockheads!’ He pointed a long, slender forefinger at each of them in turn. ‘You and you and you! I tell you, you will be marked. I failed—but there are others who will not fail if you persist.’

      Royal turned away to hide a snigger. This kind of melodrama failed to impress him.

      ‘No doubt, no doubt!’ assented Menzies soothingly. He might have been calming down a headstrong questioner at a vestry meeting. ‘But there are a good many police officers in London. It will take a long time to kill ’em off. Now, why don’t you be reasonable, Mr Smith?’

      ‘Pah!’ interrupted the prisoner.

      He spat on the cell floor to indicate his contempt.

      ‘You’ve shown you know something about this murder,’ went on Menzies. ‘The judge is pretty sure to take that into account one way or the other at your trial. I, of course, should tell him if you helped us. It would probably make a difference, you know.’

      The prisoner showed two rows of yellow teeth in an unmirthful, contemptuous grin.

      ‘Go away, wooden-head! I shall not go to prison, but you will die. You don’t know what you call—what you are up against.’

      ‘Perhaps I’ve got an idea,’ said Menzies. His voice changed. ‘I don’t know whether you’re playing the fool, my man,’ he said sternly. ‘or whether you really believe that kind of wild talk. Perhaps your friend Errol will be able to enlighten us.’

      ‘Errol?’ said Smith blankly. ‘I know him not.’

      ‘I hear you,’ said Menzies. ‘You think over what I’ve said, my lad. Meanwhile we’ll have a doctor to look at you.’

       CHAPTER VI

      MENZIES let an unparliamentary expression slip from his lips as the cell door clanged behind them. It is tantalising to have a piece of evidence drop into one’s lap, so to speak, and then refuse to be evidence. He was annoyed because his efforts to unlock the lips of the prisoner failed. He knew that if only the man could have been induced to talk, days, possibly weeks, of heartbreaking labour would be saved.

      This fresh development ‘had him guessing’, as Jimmie Hallett might have said. Who was ‘William Smith’? Why had he threatened Hallett, and even gone so far as to try to carry his threat into execution? The hint of an organised conspiracy to save the murderer of Greye-Stratton would have excited his derision if it had not aroused speculation. The secret societies in England may talk murder at times, but they never seriously plot murder or carry out a murder. A man who imperils his neck has invariably some strong personal motive. And when others actively shield him, they also have some other motive than pure altruism.

      One person may commit an irresponsible act for no reason; it is even conceivable that two people may act in concert in some insane crime. But here were at least three people concerned, and possibly more—the woman who had passed the cheques to Hallett, the murderer of Greye-Stratton, and ‘William Smith’. What was the link that bound them all together? That each was acting from some powerful self-interest he felt confident. It might be community of interest, but he was sceptic enough to think that accidental.

      The chief-inspector checked his flow of thought with a jerk. Speculation without materials spelt a fixed theory—and to a detective a premature theory may be fatal. He is apt to try to prove his theory rather than prove the truth.

      He laid a hand on Hallett’s arm as the goaler inserted a key in the big steel door that led to the charge-room.

      ‘Wait a minute. There are a dozen people the other side of the door waiting for us. I want you to have a good look at them when you go in. If you recognise any of them I want you to go up and touch her.’

      ‘Her?’ repeated Hallett.

      His pulse throbbed unaccountably faster. Menzies eyed him keenly.

      ‘You said last night that you would probably know the woman again who planted the cheques on you. I’m relying on you, Mr Hallett. You’re a man of the world. Don’t run away with the idea that a pretty face can’t be mixed up in crime.’

      ‘So you’ve run her down? Why didn’t you tell me before? Who is she? Does she admit passing the cheques?’

      Menzies shook a forefinger blandly at the young man.

      ‘I’ll answer your questions some other time. Only play the game, Mr Hallett.’

      He was a shrewd judge of men, and all along he had been doubtful whether Jimmie’s chivalry would be proof against the test to which he proposed to put it.

      And Jimmie himself was doubtful. A week—a day—ago he would have ridiculed the idea that a pair of blue eyes—seen only once—could have swayed him in any degree. He did not put his thoughts into form, but he wondered what the effect to her of an identification might be. Had Menzies any suspicion against her? Jimmie found himself arguing, illogically enough, that it was impossible. Menzies’ words braced him as they were intended to—come what would, he would point her out if she were in the charge-room.

      And then the door swung back. The charge-room, lofty and bare, was tenanted by a little group of women, seated in a row at the lower end. Apart from them, in the centre by the inspector’s desk, were a couple of officers. A third was leaning against the dock. The chatter of voices ceased.

      ‘Take a good look at these ladies,’ said Menzies’ suave voice.

      Jimmie had not needed more than one glance. There was a sufficient general resemblance among the array of women, but she was unmistakable. She was the second from the right. He had taken one pace towards her when her gaze met him. There was nothing in it of appeal. It was indifferent, cold, impassive.

      Yet Hallett’s resolution wavered. He walked past her along the row, and back again. He felt himself a fool. There was not the faintest reason why he should not identify her. She was a stranger. She was at least indirectly responsible for the unpleasant experiences that had beset him. She was possibly concerned in a deliberate murder. And then, out of the tail of his eye, he saw her moisten her dry lips. That was the only trace of emotion she gave.

      ‘It’s no good, Mr Menzies,’ he said quietly. ‘I don’t recognise anyone here.’

      He had played poker in his time, and his face and voice were absolutely expressionless.

      Menzies tapped a forefinger thoughtfully alongside his nose and smiled ruefully.

      ‘All right,’ he said;

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